


A Rare Camaraderie

by MelliaBee



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Beginnings of Steve/Peggy, Camaraderie, Captain America: The First Avenger, F/M, Friendship, Gen, No Slash, Peggy and Bucky are a team, Steggy - Freeform, Steve and Bucky are like brothers, What I wished the movie had shown, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-08 23:00:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 36,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8866804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelliaBee/pseuds/MelliaBee
Summary: At first Peggy and Bucky eyed each other warily behind Steve's oblivious back. Then overnight, the game changed. A series of moments in which Peggy, Bucky and Steve look after each other.





	1. First Impressions

**First Impressions**

* * *

Tensions were high for the first few days after the rescue of the 107th.  Peggy Carter and James "Bucky" Barnes circled Steve Rogers like a couple of satellites, eyeing each other warily.  If Peggy had been asked about it, she would have politely stated that Captain Rogers’ choice of friends was no concern of hers.  Bucky would have been less polite, muttering something about British dames with too much starch up their backbones.  

Nobody asked, though.  Nobody dared.

Captain Rogers was completely oblivious, but half of the camp could see the situation shaping up.  There was even a not-so-secret betting pool going on over which one would bite the other’s head off first.  Rumor had it that when Colonel Phillips found out, he’d actually almost smiled, and then put money on Agent Carter.  

Then, overnight, the game changed.

* * *

It was late in the evening; the sun was going down, and most of the men had retired to their tents.  Steve Rogers was the last one by the fire, reading by the flickering light of the dying flames.

“Goodnight, Captain,” Peggy paused to say.  Smiling, he looked up and shut his book with a snap.

“‘Night, Agent,” he answered, rising to his feet.  “I… whoa...” he swayed and flung out a hand sideways, trying to catch his balance. 

In three steps she was at his side, grabbing the front of his uniform and trying to steady him, though she knew that if he actually fell, there would be nothing she could do about it.  His hand - he had large hands now - caught at her shoulder, and she planted her feet.  “Sit down, Steve,” she ordered, and for once he actually obeyed her.

Once he was sitting on the log, she pushed his head towards his knees and sat next to him, one hand firm on the nape of his neck.  Her mind spun - what had just happened?  Was the serum somehow failing?

Steve broke the silence, cautiously raising his head as if he thought it might fall off.  “Well, that didn’t turn out the way I planned,” he admitted a little sheepishly.  Peggy realized her hand was still on the back of his neck, and retrieved it as discreetly as she could.

“What was that all about?” she demanded, and if her voice was a little sharp, she chalked it up to her alarm.  He could have fallen in the fire, for heaven’s sake.

He tried to stand up again, but she grabbed his sleeve and jerked hard enough to pull him back down with a jolt.  The fact that she’d been able to move him at all was slightly alarming.  

“Nothing, I’m okay.  Just got a little light-headed for a second.”

Light-headed?  He hadn’t gotten light-headed since Project Rebirth, at least as far as she knew.  A suspicion stirred in the back of her mind, and she leaned forward, trying to get a better look at his face.  He looked back at her, the remnants of an embarrassed flush lingering across his cheekbones - cheekbones which were far too sharp, looking oddly out of place on a man who had been almost a head shorter than her up until a few months ago.

“Steve, you’re not eating enough, are you?”

Taken aback, he frowned.  “Well it’s not as if every day was Thanksgiving.”  The sudden addition of the escaped Hydra prisoners had swelled the ranks of the camp, and supplies were being stretched thin until they could get back to the main Allied force.  Nobody was eating heartily, but that wasn’t her point.

“Your metabolism has increased exponentially - you should be eating more.”

He was shaking his head before she even finished her sentence.  “Peggy, I’m not going to eat more than the other fellows just because I’m bigger than them.”

Frustrated, she tried again, but knew it would do no good; he was wearing the stubborn expression she had seen so often back at the training camp.  “Steve, your body needs more fuel.  Proportionally you're eating less than anybody - I swear you’ve lost a stone in the past week.”

“She’s right, you know.”

The voice from the shadows startled both of them, and Bucky Barnes stepped out with a grin that told just how much he’d enjoyed their surprise.  For a moment he and Peggy eyed each other levelly.  Then Barnes lazily tapped the brim of his hat, and she nodded politely.  Formalities concluded, she glanced pointedly at Steve. Barnes followed her gaze, and then looked back at her with determination and a sort of responsible concern sparking in his eyes.  

Quite to her surprise, Peggy suddenly discovered she had an ally.  The man might have rubbed her the wrong way the first time they met, but he seemed to care a lot for Steve’s well-being.  Captain America was stubborn to a fault - she could use the help in dealing with him.

Steve could sense that something had just passed between the two of them.  “Bucky,” he trailed off, voice a little tight with apprehension.

“Naw, you should listen to the lady.”  Barnes sat down on Steve’s other side, and casually slung an arm around his shoulders.  “Big fellow like you needs enough grub to keep you going, or you’ll keel over sometime and embarrass the nation.  Captain America fainting? Horrors!”  He put on a mock scandalized expression, and Steve chuckled in spite of himself.  Still, he was nothing if not obstinate.

“Thanks Buck, but I’m fine.  Really.”

Barnes leaned forward and caught Peggy’s eye.  She frowned back and shook her head, trying to indicate that no, he wasn’t all right.  A sly look sprang into the soldier’s face, and he thumped Steve hard on the back.

“Look, squirt, let’s make a deal.  You eat up all nice and proper, and I don’t tell Agent Carter that secret you didn’t tell me the other night.”

It must have been some secret, because Steve’s spine straightened like he’d been shot, and he directed an alarmed, utterly betrayed look at his best friend.  “Bucky!”

“A secret he  _ didn’t  _ tell you?”  Peggy raised her eyebrows, speaking straight through Steve to Barnes.  “Sounds intriguing.”

Barnes nodded sagely.  “Oh, it is.  Very much so.  It’s all about…”

Steve flailed awkwardly, trying to get his hand over Barnes’ mouth without accidentally using too much of his new strength and hurting his friend.  “Buck, you swore you wouldn't tell!”

Barnes waggled his eyebrows unrepentantly, ducking Steve's uncoordinated attack and launching one of his own.  Peggy sat back on the log, watching the scuffle.  For a moment she felt like she was looking through a window into the past, watching a couple of young boys roughhousing on the streets of Brooklyn. 

Steve suddenly convulsed with a muffled howl, and his friend grinned wickedly.  “A word to the wise, Agent Carter,” he called, and dodged an outflung arm that probably would have accidentally thrown him into the nearest row of tents if it had connected.  “Steve’s the most ticklish guy in all of creation.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” she solemnly promised.  “Surely that wasn't the secret though?”

Steve pulled away, hair askew, and tried to straighten his jacket, glaring sternly at his friend.  The two men shared a long look, but the obstinate lines of Steve’s jaw never slackened.  “It isn’t fair to the other guys…”

Barnes met Peggy’s eyes again, and then glanced back to Steve.  “Fair?  I’ll give you fair.  It wouldn’t be fair to pass out on us right when the next wave of Nazis or Hydra comes by.  You don’t know how the other guys depend on you.”

Peggy spoke up from his other side, propping her elbows on her knees. “Morale has never been so high, Steve, and it's because of you.  They need you.  Nobody will starve to death if you eat a little more.  We’re not that badly off.”

Glancing between them both, Steve finally let his shoulders fall, and she knew they had won.  “Fine, I’ll eat another half-ration, if you clear it with the cook.  But if we start running out…”

“Then Agent Carter and I will steal your food ourselves,” Barnes promised, and Steve spoiled his earnestness by laughing despite himself.  Barnes grinned at her behind his friend’s back, and Peggy gave him a thankful nod.  She and Barnes had one thing in common - Steve Rogers.  Perhaps they were more alike than she had thought, after all.

“I don’t suppose I’ll ever find out that secret,” Peggy said as she rose.  The two men followed suit, and both she and Barnes kept a sharp eye on Steve until they were satisfied he wasn’t about to tip over again.

“No,” Steve declared positively.

Barnes winked over his shoulder.  “Yes, you will.”  

* * *

The camp never did figure out exactly what happened.  

One day, Carter and Barnes were eyeing each other with wary reserve, and the next day they seemed to have dropped into a casual working relationship with Captain Rogers as their joint focal point.  The captain didn't seem to notice their alliance any more than he had their frosty formality, but there wasn’t a man in the regiment who didn’t see the difference and scratch his head in fruitless curiosity.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, folks! I'm crossposting this from fanfiction.net, so if it looks familiar, that's why. 
> 
> Kudos are lovely. Reviews are even better. Take a minute to say hi!


	2. Whisper

**Whispers**

* * *

Sometimes it was terribly inconvenient being a girl in a camp full of men.  Peggy Carter was used to it by now, but that didn’t mean it was easy.  Splashing a little water on her face, she sat back on her heels, appreciating the peace and quiet - the chance to be alone for a few minutes.  At last she scrambled to her feet with a resigned sigh.  She’d been gone quite long enough, and if she didn’t hurry back, supper would be over.  

It had grown dark, and she picked her way carefully back toward the camp.  She was so focussed on her path that she almost missed the smothered groan.  

Freezing in her tracks, Peggy strained her ears, hand drifting toward her gun.  They were well behind the Allied lines by now, but that didn’t mean things were safe.  Somebody groaned again, and she cautiously redirected her steps toward the sound.  A dark shape sprawled at the foot of a large tree, and it took her an embarrassingly long time to recognize who it was.

“Sergeant Barnes?”

The sergeant was gasping, gripping his head in both hands and moaning between clenched teeth.  He was all but writhing on the ground, obviously in pain and desperately trying to suffer in silence.  

“Sergeant, where are you hurt?  Can you tell me what happened?”  Peggy dropped to her knees at his side, and tried to ascertain the extent of his injuries while simultaneously scanning the darkness around her for danger.  It was almost too dark to see, but a brief patdown of his body revealed no obvious blood.  

“H-head,” he finally managed, gritting his teeth hard enough that she could actually hear it.  She hadn’t felt any blood in his hair, but did a second check to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.  His hands were still clamped around his own skull, and it was hard to tell if anything was abnormal.  What she wouldn't give for a light...

“Can you let go of your head, Sergeant?” she finally asked.  “I need to see how you’re hurt.”  

He couldn't speak, far past words, but her fingers finally found moisture on his face.  Not sticky enough for blood, she suddenly realized it was tears of pain, leaking from between tightly squeezed eyelids.  Everything came together, and she sat back on her heels with a breath of relief. 

"You have a headache, don't you?"  

She didn't need him to answer; she knew she was right.  She felt silly, taking this long to figure it out, but it was wartime.  When someone was in pain, there was usually a lot of blood involved.  People tended to forget about more normal things like headaches.  Still, this was no mere headache.  Sergeant Barnes was clearly in massive agony.  His legs worked against the leaves as if he could somehow crawl away, and each breath came with something like a sob.  

He wouldn’t want her to see him like this, wouldn’t want anyone to see him.  He had made it this far into the woods to be by himself, but in all good conscience she couldn’t leave him to suffer alone.

“I’ll go get Steve, shall I?”  Peggy started to get to her feet, but one hand finally came loose from his hair and scrabbled blindly at her coat.  He couldn’t get a grip on it, but she got the message and stopped.

“No,” Barnes forced past his clenched teeth.  “No.”

Well, all right.  If he didn’t want his best friend, then that was that.

He’d simply have to make do with her. 

Shifting her position, she crawled around until she was kneeling by his head, shucking off her jacket.  The night air was chilly, but she'd handled worse. “Barnes,” she purposefully kept her voice soft and low in the hopes it wouldn’t worsen his pain.  “I’m going to lift your head a little.”

His whole body shuddered as she carefully raised his head and shoulders, shoving her jacket underneath as a makeshift pillow.  Hopefully it would offer at least a little relief.  “Let go of your head,” she told him firmly.  “It’s all right; I know what to do.  I can help, you just need to let go.”

It took several minutes, but he finally allowed her to guide his hands away from his head.  For a moment, he grasped at the leaves and grass around them until he found purchase on the hem of her skirt.  Peggy let him; he needed something to hang onto, and she didn’t particularly mind.  Her fingers quickly sought out the pressure points on his skull that she remembered so well.  Her mother had suffered from debilitating migraines during the last few years of her life, and Peggy had become rather skilled at coaxing them away.

For a long time, she knelt and worked over his head.  At first he continued to gasp, clutching convulsively at her, shaking with pain.  It was nearly pitch black by the time she finally began to feel him relax. He was no longer moaning with each breath, and she suddenly realized he had fallen asleep.

“Sergeant Barnes?”

He didn’t respond to her best efforts to wake him, so she gathered her feet under her and rose decidedly.  There was no way she could get him back to camp by herself, and she wasn’t about to leave him out here all night.  Whether he liked it or not, she was going to need to bring Steve into this.

* * *

Steve Rogers was in the middle of a conversation with Colonel Phillips when something started niggling at the edge of his brain.  He stammered and lost the end of his sentence, but the colonel was busy with a map and didn’t notice.

_ “...tain Rog…" _

Colonel Phillips asked him a question and Steve blinked.  “Um, sure?”  He tried to focus.  Was it something he was hearing?  

_ “...eed you…” _

He suddenly remembered the days right after Project Rebirth, during the constant medical tests and check-ups he’d been subjected to.  He’d been in the middle of an examination when the nurses in the hallway began whispering about his physical appearance.  Steve had blushed bright scarlet, and that’s when they discovered that his hearing had been enhanced.  Since then he’d learned to block out the sounds on the edge of his hearing - it was often distracting or invasive.

This voice sounded familiar, though.  He concentrated, trying to shut everything else out. 

_ “Steve, I need you.  Bucky’s in trouble.” _

That was Peggy.  Steve jolted to his feet and suddenly realized that the colonel was staring at him, mouth open.  Apparently he’d been in the middle of a sentence.  “Sorry, sir.”  Steve turned and almost tripped over his own canvas chair.  “That sounds good.  I just remembered something.  Ah - excuse me, sir.”  Saluting, he left the tent with an internal grimace.  He’d certainly pay for that in the morning.

Peggy was at his tent at the other end of the row.  Apparently she had given up calling, and had stuck her head inside to see if he was asleep.  He hurried over.  “What’s wrong with Bucky?  Are you okay?”  He’d looked for them both at dinner, but Dugan had called him into a discussion, and he had been distracted from his search.  Now he realized something must have happened.

“I’m fine.  You could hear me from all the way over there?”  She sounded pleased and surprised, but he noticed she was shivering in the wind, coatless.

“It took a while,” Steve admitted, unzipping his jacket.  “I usually try not to listen to things like that.  What’s the trouble?”  He stepped closer.  “Here.”

For a moment he thought she would refuse, but either the look on his face or the sudden cold gust of wind changed her mind, and she let him put his coat around her shoulders.  “I found Barnes in the woods before dinner with the grandmother of all headaches.  He’s sleeping now, but I can’t get him back to camp.”

She’d started walking before finishing her sentence, and he followed closely, reaching into the pocket of the coat she was wearing to retrieve his flashlight.  “I owe you, Peggy,” he finally said.  “Thanks for being there for him.”

“Does he get headaches frequently?”  

Steve could hear the concern in her voice and bit his lip, trying to decide how much to tell her.  Bucky had told him some things in confidence, while others he had simply guessed.

“He didn’t use to,” the captain finally settled on saying.  “They - did a lot of stuff to him, and we still don’t know all the after-effects.  I thought he hadn’t had one for a couple of weeks; he must be hiding them from me.”  The thought hurt, that his best friend would deliberately not tell him things.

Peggy took the flashlight from his hand so she could shine it more directly where she was stepping.  “Well, then I imagine he’ll be quite cross with me for telling you.”

“I’m glad you did,” Steve admitted quietly, and she heard the weight of responsibility and worry in his voice.

They came into view of Barnes then, lying at the foot of the tree where she’d left him, and Steve covered the last few yards faster than she’d ever seen him move when not in battle.  “Bucky?  Hey, Buck?”

“Is he all right?” Peggy asked, catching up and trying not to shine the light into Steve’s face.

“Yeah.”  Steve gently shook his friend’s shoulder.  “He usually sleeps like a log after one of these though - I think he’s out for the night.”  Sliding his arms under Barnes’ knees and back, Steve straightened, effortlessly picking up his friend.  

Peggy shook her head in disbelief, but held the flashlight steady as she retrieved her chilly jacket from the ground and slung it over her arm.  She still wasn’t used to the casual displays of strength that the captain was capable of.  His might was awe-inspiring when he fought, but it was the little day-to-day things that kept catching her off-guard, like lifting motorcycles over a granite ridge, or carrying a twelve gallon dishpan full of water for the mess crew, or picking up a fully-grown man from the ground without a single sign of strain.

The walk back to camp was taken in silence, but as they parted at the first row of tents, Steve paused and turned to her.  She moved to give him back his flashlight, and he shifted Bucky’s dead weight until he could reach out to take it.  To her surprise, he paused, his fingers overlapping hers on the metal handle for the briefest of moments.  “Thanks, Peggy,” he said again.  “Jerk’s so set on taking care of me, he forgets how to look after himself.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Peggy commented dryly, and Bucky chose that moment to snore softly into Steve’s collar, as if in agreement.  Steve scowled playfully at his old friend before looking back at her, trying very hard to look completely inoffensive.

“Looks like I’ve got to get this guy to bed,” he told her as he turned, hefting Barnes into a more secure position.  “Hang onto my coat for me - I can get it from you in the morning.  G’night, Peggy.”

“Good night, Steve,” she replied, and he grinned easily over his shoulder as he left.  His coat was warm around her, and she pulled it a little tighter as she started the walk back to her tent, her own jacket folded in her arms.  

She only looked back once, but the image of Captain America carrying his friend was one that would stay with her the rest of her life.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Peggy and Steve taking care of Bucky needs to be a thing.
> 
> Thanks for the support! I love hearing from you all.


	3. Loyal Defense

**Loyal Defense**

* * *

London was almost overwhelming after having been held in a prisoner camp.  The trains were busy, the streets were even busier, and the frequent bombings were enough to keep any man awake at night.  Add to that the lingering headaches and nightmares that persisted from his time in Azzano, and Bucky Barnes was left almost constantly on edge.

It was with relief then, that he slipped into a secluded corner of the pub nearest their temporary barracks.  The lights and noise were enough to chase away his ghosts, but he was just enough out of the way that it was unlikely anybody would talk to him.  Leaning against the wall, he sipped his drink and listened idly to the snatches of talk around him.

"...letter from home. I don't think..."

"...keeps nagging me about my uniform - it's not as if we have an ironing board..."

"...all know that Carter's got no eyes for anyone else..."

The familiar name drew his attention, and he focused on the soldier at the bar who was speaking to two or three others, all gathered around.

"Yeah, just because he's in all those shows and stuff doesn't mean he's actually as great as he looks.  Movie magic, I think they call it. You take his suit off, I bet half of those muscles go with it."

They were talking about Steve.  Bucky gripped the handle of his mug tighter, and set his jaw, blood starting to boil.  For as long as he’d known Steve, he had heard people poke fun at the smaller man’s expense.  He’d split his knuckles open more times than he could count, trying to knock some sense into guys like that.  Now his friend finally had the physical stature to match his great spirit, and some folks were still staying nasty things about him.

"Well, you could ask Carter.  I bet she knows firsthand." The second man leered into his glass, ugly implication clear. His friends laughed uproariously. "Girls like her always hitch their wagon to the fastest star until a better one comes along.  Wonder who she'll end up with next?"

None of them noticed Bucky set his mug down with a thump.

* * *

They never knew what hit them.  Bucky Barnes had grown up with the title of the best and dirtiest fighter in the neighborhood, and his skill had only increased since coming overseas.  He spun the loudest talker around and punched him in the mouth before knocking the other man off his stool with an elbow and going for the third like a wildcat. The fact that he was severely outnumbered didn't phase him a bit, and the ghosts in his mind retreated, forgotten for once.

At the end, bleeding from a cut over one eye, he looked positively ferocious as he faced the rest of the pub.  They stared back, shocked into stillness.  

"Look here, I don't know what scum like this have been saying," he started, "but none of you are gonna say a word against Agent Carter.  She's a professional, and better than all of you put together.”

Somebody audibly scoffed, and Bucky promptly jerked their chair out from beneath them, sending them sprawling before glaring at the rest of the room, eyes blazing.  “As for Captain Rogers - his actions speak louder than any words I can say.  He carried me out of that hole on his own back, and I owe him my life. I don't care what his muscles are made of; I just know they work."

He paused, and his voice dropped to near deadly levels.  "You got anything to say about either of them, then you say it to my face, right here, right now.

Not a man moved, and the biggest talker, lying on his back among the splintered remnants of a chair, refused to make eye contact.  Slowly, Barnes scanned the room, then turned and deliberately walked out, leaving stunned silence in his wake.

* * *

“I just can't make sense of this,” Steve Rogers frowned over the paper in his hand, scratching his head with a pencil.  It was a scene Bucky had seen a million times - Steve puzzling over the bills in the low light of evening - only this was different. Instead of a little apartment in Brooklyn, they were in a barracks just outside of London.  Steve wasn't coughing his lungs out either, which was a distinct improvement.

“I bet it's ‘cause it's in a foreign language,” Bucky told him, staring hard at his book to keep a straight face. Jones had some paperbacks he hadn't read yet, and he had borrowed one for the day.

Steve took a second look. “No, it's in English, all right.”

“Exactly,” Bucky interrupted. “Foreign language.”  Steve still looked confused, so he elaborated. “Folks from England read English, folks from America read American…”

Steve chucked a pillow at him. “Cut that out,” he laughed. “It's the same language, ya big dope.”

“Who’s a big dope?” Bucky demanded, confiscating the pillow and sitting up. It was the little things, like pillows and jokes and laughing at his best friend that helped him remember he wasn't in that work camp anymore, and he treasured every bit he could get, pulling them out to hold in his mind when it was late and dark and everybody else was asleep. “Fine, then if you're so good at reading it, what's the trouble?"

Steve handed the paper over. “The colonel gave it to me, said I might know who it should go to.  Looks like it's some kind of damage report for a bar or something, but I don’t remember hearing about it. How much is a pound worth, anyway?”

Bucky shrugged and gave the paper back. “Beats me.  More than a dollar, I think.”  He tried to act casual, but Steve had always been uncannily good at reading him.

“Don't suppose you'd know what that guy thought he was doing, breaking up a place like that?” he asked, pinning Bucky with a look he surely must have learned from his mother.  In fact, now that he came to think about it, Bucky was pretty sure he remembered getting that exact same glare from Sarah Rogers, fifteen years earlier.

Bucky lay back on his bunk again, stuffing his newly appropriated pillow behind his back.  “Haven’t a clue,” he lied cheekily, and picked up his book.  “Seriously though, you sure English is the same language we grew up speaking?  Doesn’t sound like it at all.”

“Bucky.”  Steve didn’t rise to the bait, voice flat.  “You're changing the subject on me.”  

The sergeant lowered his book an inch, and sighed. “Whoever it was, I bet he had real good reasons, Steve.”  He was quite sure Steve had already heard some of the things people were saying behind his back, but if he could spare his friend from a little more of it, he would.

Steve didn't say anything for a minute, eyeing Bucky thoughtfully.  At last he got to his feet, and crumpled the paper in his hand.

“Well, guess I’d better give this back to the colonel,” he announced pointedly to nobody in particular, “since it doesn’t seem to belong to anybody I know.”   

Bucky grinned and settled back against his stolen pillow, book carefully in front of his face.  They’d known each other far too long - Steve would understand that he wasn’t getting anything else out of him.  On the other hand, the guy was no dummy, and probably already had a good idea of what had happened.

“Oh, Buck?”  Steve stopped and turned in the doorway, and Bucky lifted his eyes from the page.  

“Yeah?”

Steve’s gaze was surprisingly serious.  “You know I can take care of myself, right?”

The guy looked as if he honestly believed it, but Bucky Barnes knew better.  Tall or short, frail or strong, Steve Rogers had always been a stubborn son of a gun.  But the idea that he could take care of himself - well, the Hudson river would run dry first.  Until that day, it was Bucky’s job to look after his friend, and if that meant looking out for Agent Carter too, then so be it.

“Sure you can, Steve,” he said, smiling at his best friend and hoping his loyalty and pride weren’t showing too much. “Sure you can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta love Bucky looking out for Steve, even after he's no longer a skinny little guy.
> 
> Hey, thanks everybody for your kind welcome to this site!


	4. Shield

**Shield**

* * *

The airfield was dim and foggy, with very little traffic due to the weather.  Steve tipped up his head to the sky and relished the open feeling.  For a kid who had grown up in Brooklyn and was currently stationed in London, he really liked wide spaces.

“No, no,  _ never _ put that box on end!”  Howard Stark’s strident voice cut the air like a knife.  A plane had arrived earlier with some of his inventions, and he had invited Steve to meet him at the airfield.  Apparently there were some things he wanted to show off - or something.  Steve had been going to refuse, but one look at Bucky’s face had him changing his mind.

For years, Bucky had followed Howard Stark’s achievements in the papers back home.  The idea of actually getting to meet the man had brought a look of glee back into his eyes that Steve hadn’t seen since Brooklyn.  Now, tagging at Steve’s elbow, Bucky’s eyes and grin were equally wide as he looked at the strangely shaped parcels all around them.

“Hey, Rogers!”  Howard popped up from behind a large box, a pair of blue goggles pushed back on his forehead giving him the look of a human fly.  “Aaaand company,” he added, seeing Bucky.  “Here, gimme a hand with this thing - these guys don’t know up from down.”  Bucky stepped forward willingly and trotted after Howard, who was already nine steps ahead of him and rattling on about something or other.

Left alone for the moment, Steve looked around, not quite admitting to himself who he was looking for.  After all, she probably wouldn’t be hanging around an airstrip just to watch Howard’s boxes; surely she had better things to do.  

He had done such a good job of convincing himself that she wouldn’t be there, that when he saw her he had to look twice to be sure.  A hundred yards away, Peggy Carter was walking towards the plane, checking things off on a clipboard as she came.  She hadn’t seen him yet, and he took the brief opportunity to appreciate the picture she made, all trim and businesslike despite the gloomy day.

The dim drone of an airplane sounded somewhere in the background as he started towards her, trying to figure out how to let her know he was there.  Should he call out, or wait until he was close enough to speak normally?  What did Bucky usually do?  Suddenly he couldn’t remember a single time that he’d seen Bucky greet girls.  They just sort of - appeared, didn’t they?

The sound of the airplane was coming closer, and he looked up, hoping to watch it land.  The spectacle was routine for everybody else, but still new to him.  Steve had to admit, he was fascinated by the machines, though he doubted he’d ever get the opportunity to learn how to use one.  The fog made it hard to see, and he was privately impressed at the nerve of the pilot who was flying in like this.

Then the plane came fully into view through the swirling fog, and his heart stopped.

Howard or Bucky probably could have rattled off the make and serial number of the plane, but Steve only knew three things.

The plane was German, there were guns mounted below the wings, and it was flying straight towards Howard's aircraft.

Peggy was right in its path. 

His feet were moving even before he realized, and he ran faster than he'd even known he could.

A hoarse cry of alarm from behind him told him that one of the airfield workers had noticed as well, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that Howard and Bucky would have time to get away from their airplane before it was hit.  Peggy, on the other hand, had her back to the fast approaching German plane, and was nowhere near cover.

The first rattle of machine gun fire split the air, and Peggy dropped her clipboard, arms flying up to cover her head as she whirled around to run but it was too late.  Steve could see jets of dirt spurting up from the ground where the bullets were driving, and he knew she had only seconds left.

He reached her just before the line of fire did, and flung himself forward, his full weight slamming her into the ground.  She grunted painfully at the impact, even as his fumbling hand cupped the back of her head and tucked it beneath his chin.  Flattening himself over her, he tried to cover her smaller form as fully as possible, praying desperately that his body would somehow be enough to stop the bullets before they could reach her.

Then the thundering concussion was upon them, and Steve braced himself for the inevitable onslaught.  Dirt hit his face, and he set his teeth - and then it swept past, the drone of the engine growing fainter, the rattling guns retreating.

For a long moment, he just lay there, still drawn tight, suddenly aware of the pound of his own heart.  Had he been shot?  It didn’t feel like it…

Beneath him, Peggy’s hand shoved against his chest, and he jerked in surprise before raising his head and looking down into her face.  She was wheezing, the wind knocked out of her, and dirt was ground into one cheek, but she looked alive.

“Steve,” she croaked. Her eyes were huge, and she grasped at his uniform.  

“You okay?” he asked, and she nodded uncertainly, breath ragged. “Don’t try to talk,” he told her, and realized that his voice was shaking dismally.  “Just breathe.  Did I hurt you?”  

She struggled for another breath, and it was only when he felt her chest rise against his own that he realized he was still sprawled on top of her.  Blushing fiercely, he lifted himself off and helped her sit up.  It was then that he noticed the neat rows of bullet holes drilled into the ground on either side of her body.  They must have come within inches of his head.  

Peggy saw them too, and her face turned impossibly whiter beneath the dirt.  “Are you all right?” she rasped, hands patting frantically up and down his sides. “Did they…”

“Hey, I'm fine,” he tried to tell her, and finally she steadied. 

“Steve Rogers,” her voice hitched as she tried to breathe more evenly, eyes scanning his body one more time before returning to his face.  “If you ever - don’t you dare…” she trailed off breathlessly. 

"Steve!"  Bucky skidded through the dirt to his side, roughly grabbing his shoulders.  He saw the holes in the ground as well, and choked something profane through his teeth as he tried to check his friend over. 

"I'm okay, Buck," Steve tried to reassure him, “They got rotten aim,” but Bucky would not be deterred from his course of action.  At last, unable to find blood, he sat back on his heels.  

“You just took ten years off my life, Rogers,” he growled, but one look at his face told Steve that Bucky was more shaken than angry.  “When I saw you run out there - and then you didn’t get up right away…” he swallowed convulsively and shook his head hard.  “Agent Carter okay?”

She nodded, more assuredly this time, though Steve noted she still didn’t have much color.  “I think I winded her,” he explained sheepishly.  “Sorry about that,” he finished, feeling helpless, but she shook her head at him.

“You’re an idiot,” she told him between gasps, and though her voice was still uneven, the look on her face was fierce enough to bend iron.  “Do you always say ‘hello’ to women by knocking them down?”  

Steve suddenly realized he was grinning.  “Only when somebody’s strafing them, ma’am.” 

“We should get off the field,” Bucky interjected, and glanced up uneasily at the sky.  “We're sitting ducks out here if they do another flyover.”

A loud report made all three of them jump. Over to the left, Stark's plane was burning, and a few of the boxes around it looked as though they had exploded green fire, which was more than a little disturbing.  Howard himself was running around like a madman, ordering his employees left and right as they dragged things away from the plane. 

"He's gonna need a hand with that," Steve realized, and stumbled to his feet.  Peggy apparently still had a grip on his jacket, so he helped her up, not missing her quickly hidden wince and the stiff way she held herself. She would probably be severely bruised in the morning from his crushing impact.  

Still, bruised was far, far better than dead. 

“Bucky, get her outta here. I got to help Stark.”  Then he was off, running back toward the burning plane. 

Left alone, Bucky cast a sideways glance at Agent Carter.  She was looking after Steve with a mixture of fondness and exasperation that he had felt all too often on his own face. 

“Shall we?” he asked, and offered his arm. 

She threw a withering glance up at him. “In your dreams, soldier,” she told him firmly, and limped off after Steve, pausing only to pick up the remains of her shattered clipboard, shot to pieces where she had dropped it. 

Shaking his head, Bucky Barnes looked after her. “Steve, you sure got yourself one peach of a girl and you don’t even know it yet,” he mused aloud. She was every inch as stubborn as the boy he’d known all his life.  They would be perfect for each other, assuming they both lived through all this.

With one last glance at the bullet holes in the ground, Bucky followed his friend. One of these days, that fool was gonna get himself killed doing something foolishly heroic. It was up to him and Agent Carter to make sure that day was put off as long as possible. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a true story.
> 
> Some years ago a WWII doctor and nurse sat down and told me stories. I’ll never forget the way the old doctor held out his hands as he told of shoving the nurse down and covering her with his body, trying to shield her as a Nazi plane flew low over the airfield, strafing. It went directly over them and left a row of bullet holes on each side of them, but they were unhurt. I couldn’t resist retelling the experience - it seemed exactly the kind of thing Steve Rogers would do.


	5. Lullaby

**Lullaby**

* * *

The French countryside was bleak and damp and miserable.  At one point it must have been quite pretty, but the fields had been churned into mud from all the tanks and bombs and men ploughing back and forth across them.  Even now, there were flashes in the sky, the rumble from the near-constant explosions following a heartbeat later.

The Howling Commandos and a few other Allied units had found some shelter in a small village.  Only a few days ago it had been enemy territory, but the Nazis had since been driven back and the line of fighting had shifted towards the north.  This was their first relatively quiet night in nearly a week, and they all were in desperate need of rest.

Peggy could feel her boots dragging wearily as she made her way through the rubble-strewn streets.  None of the village’s residents were left - they had either fled or died amid the fighting and shelling that had engulfed their homes.  Even the church had been hard-hit, although it still had most of the roof left.

“What’s the word, Peggy?”  Steve fell into step beside her, looking as tired as she felt.  Dirt streaked his face, and deep shadows hung below his eyes.  None of them had got much sleep, but she was fairly certain he had slept the least of all.  Every time they had needed him over the past week, he had been there, tall and strong and wielding the bright shield Howard had made for him.

It hung on his back now, that shield.  The brilliantly patriotic paint job had been a surprise, and even Steve had looked slightly startled when it had been presented to him.  Howard had grinned evilly.  “You liked that prop shield so much, I just figured I’d make this one match.”  Still, Peggy could tell that Steve liked the idea.  Of course he would - carrying a big target, painted in the colors of his homeland - not at all conspicuous, oh no.

“The twenty-eighth have patrol tonight,” she told him, stepping over a large chunk of brick wall.  “Colonel Wright got a message through - we’re to move out in the morning.”

Steve rubbed a hand over his face, unconsciously rearranging the mud until she bit back a smile.  “Good, we’ll have this one night at least.  The boys are about beat.”

They had set up camp in the church, since it was the only building that offered any kind of shelter from the rain that had been threatening all day.  Steve automatically pulled off his helmet as they went through the doors, and Peggy couldn’t help a warm glow of amused affection at his gesture of respect.  One thing she knew about Mrs. Rogers: the woman had apparently taught her son well.

The devastation wasn’t limited solely to the outdoors - the inside of the building was just as much a wreck as the rest of the city.  Some of the pews were left, and injured soldiers were laid out on them.  Fortunately none of the Commandos were hurt badly enough to warrant such treatment, and for that Peggy was grateful.

The Commandos had taken possession of a fairly tidy section of the floor, tucked into a corner between two pillars.  As they approached, Dum Dum Dugan opened sleepy eyes, and tried to look alert.

“What’s up, Cap?” he asked.  “We heading out again?”

“In the morning,” Steve told him, bending over Morita, who was fast asleep.  “How’s his leg doing?”

Dum Dum shrugged.  “Says it hurts.  No infection though, so that’s something.”  He had been Morita’s self-appointed nurse since the other man took a bullet in his place, flesh wound though it was.

Peggy liked Dugan. She had won his respect the night she hauled him out of a fistfight by the back of his collar, and his friendship when she subsequently gave him a black eye. After those two experiences, he had accepted her wholeheartedly as a member of the team. Dugan never did anything by halves. 

Steve nodded, glancing over their little party, and Peggy could almost see him counting them silently, reassuring himself that they were all present and accounted for. “Good. Get some rest, Dugan. I got to check in with the others.”

Dum Dum rolled over, but Peggy frowned, studying Steve closely. “Captain,” she asked, and he blinked, focussing on her face. “When was the last time you ate?”

He had no answer, and she nodded decisively, pointing to his pack. “Get something to eat, and go to sleep. You need it as much as any of us.”

Steve looked incredibly tempted, but hesitated. “The others,” he began, but she cut him off. 

“I can do it,” she informed him, and stood although her feet ached. She had eaten and slept more recently than he had - it was his turn to take a break. “I expect to see you eating your dinner when I get back, understood?”

For once, Steve didn't argue, and she was glad of it. They were both far too tired to butt heads over a job that she could do quite as well as he could, and she suspected he recognized that. “You sure?” he asked instead, and she could hear the exhaustion and cautious relief in his voice. 

“Of course I am.”  Peggy planted her feet and waited, eyebrows raised pointedly until Steve obediently began to fumble in his pack for food.  Then she turned toward the doors. Perhaps if she hurried, she could beat the rain. 

* * *

She got back just as the rain started, somehow finding the energy to sprint the last few yards through the first pattering drops. The church was quiet - even the wounded men seemed to be asleep, and the handful of medics present had taken the opportunity to catch a few winks as well.

In their corner, the Howling Commandos were sleeping too. Someone was snoring - yes, that would be Dugan. Peggy chose her footing carefully as she walked closer, hoping not to wake them. 

“Steve,” she started as she finally reached the little huddle, and then stopped. 

He was asleep. 

Long legs sprawled out across the stone floor and an opened packet of rations was balanced on his knee, a fork poking out the top. His hair was mussed, dirty and damp and sticking up in spikes where he had run his hands through it, and his head was tilted back uncomfortably against the wall.  Beneath the mud on his face, Peggy could suddenly see the little boy he must once have been, and realized she was smiling fondly. 

Bucky was next to him, of course, lying sideways with his head against Steve’s other knee. One of the captain's arms was flung loosely over his friend’s shoulders, and both men were fast asleep. Barnes had been struggling with bad dreams lately; she realized he must have woken and Steve, in soothing him back to sleep, had nodded off as well. 

Outside, the rain began to fall harder, and little puddles formed on the floor beneath the broken roof. The rush of quiet sound was calming, blurring the rumble of battle, and Peggy felt an undefinable weight lift off of her heart as she put Steve’s half-eaten dinner away. Her report could easily wait - right now he needed to rest. 

Wadding somebody’s extra shirt into a ball, Peggy carefully situated it behind his head, settling him more comfortably against the wall before draping his blanket across his body. He shifted and mumbled, but remained asleep, much to her relief. She would have liked to get him into a dry pair of socks too, but sleep was more important.  In the morning she would pester him about it with Bucky to back her up - if left to himself, Steve would probably run around in wet socks until his feet rotted off.  

Curling into her own blanket, Peggy lifted her eyes to the solemn stone arches above their heads, sheltering them from the storm outside. Sheets of rain swept past the shattered windows, fresh and cleansing, and she took a deep breath, letting her eyes fall shut. They were alive and together and comparatively safe, just for this one night. 

The last thing she heard was the peculiar lullaby of thunder mingling with Dugan’s snores and the pounding of distant bombs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and this is what happens when I've been watching too many WWII newsreels.
> 
> Kudos make me smile. Comments make me fly! Have a nice day, y'all!


	6. Mission

**Mission**

* * *

“Carter, you there?”

Peggy cast a regretful look at the helmet full of warm water in the middle of the floor, and groped for her blouse.  “Just a minute,” she hissed, fumbling with the buttons.  

It had been a long, cold, muddy day, and a skirmish at the end left her tired and aching.  That new gun was a beast to shoot - she would have a purple bruise against her ribs in the morning.  They had dared light a fire afterward, and she was quite certain that she wasn’t the only member of camp trying to have a sponge bath tonight with the meager amount of warm water they had each been allotted.  

Pulling open the tent flap, Peggy was surprised to see Bucky Barnes crouched outside.  He grinned a little apologetically, and she thought he looked uncomfortable.  “Sorry to bust up your evening like this, ma’am.  Can I come in?”

The pup tent was barely big enough for both of them.  Peggy crawled backwards to make room, careful not to knock over her helmet of water.  Bucky saw it, and a flash of genuine regret shot through his eyes.  “Say, I can come back later if you’re busy.”

“No, it’s quite all right,” Peggy assured him.  “What seems to be the trouble?”

Bucky wordlessly pulled open his coat, and Peggy’s next sentence stuck in her throat as she saw the blood.

“I hate to bother you,” Bucky admitted, even as she leaned forward and helped him get his arms out of the sleeves.  “Couldn’t get it to stop bleeding, and I can’t reach it easy.”

“Get off your shirt,” Peggy demanded, digging through her gear for the first aid kit.  “You’ll probably need stitches.”  The Howling Commandos didn’t have a medic to travel with them.  Peggy had been trained as a nurse before her time with the SSR, and she often patched the men up when they were together on missions.  

Bucky hesitated, and she saw something like defensiveness in his stance as he pulled his undershirt up over his head.  The next second she understood why  His body was covered in scars - not from battle wounds, but from deliberate incisions.  He stared at her, almost challengingly, and she dragged her eyes back to the first aid materials in her lap.

Steve had never told her much about Bucky’s experiences from when he was in enemy hands.  The debriefing had been above her clearance level, and she had chosen not to ask.  Still, this glimpse into his horrific ordeal was enough to make her stomach turn.  Peggy promptly busied herself by soaking a rag in her warm water, waiting until she was sure she could look at him again without pity in her eyes.  

“Does Steve know you were shot?” she finally asked, moving to his side and beginning to wipe the blood away.  It would need stitches after all - the bullet had cut a deep gouge into his side, just below the shoulderblade.  Bucky shook his head wearily.  He seemed relieved that she didn’t comment on his scars.  

Peggy dabbed disinfectant onto the wound, and the unexpected sting made him flinch.  “Why not?” she asked, although she already knew the answer.  Bucky might be easygoing around his friends, but he had his pride.  He strained every nerve to keep up with Steve Rogers, guarding his friend’s back constantly and hiding his own injuries unless, like tonight, he couldn’t take care of them himself. “Hold still,” she added, and took the first stitch.  

Bucky didn’t move, though his jaw was set.  “I got a mission.”

“The raid isn’t a critical one,” Peggy reminded him, squinting in the dim light as she tried to make the stitches as even as possible.  “They can manage; let you take up the rear until this heals a little.”  Any extra strain could tear the wound open again, and the recoil from his rifle would be torturous.

Her patient watched the wall of the tent absently, as if he could look right through it.  “I’m not talking about the raid.  Steve’s my mission; always has been.  He’s a reckless punk - he’ll get himself killed if he doesn’t have somebody watching his back.”

Peggy bowed her head over her work again, taking another stitch.  Between Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, she was fairly sure she’d have grey hair once this was all over.   “Tell me, Barnes.  Is everyone from Brooklyn stark raving mad?”

He laughed suddenly, and she had to hold the needle away from his skin until he was done.  “Probably,” he admitted wearily, and neither one said another word until she finished the last stitch and cut the thread.  

Perhaps he felt their conversation had grown too serious, because he grinned and winked as he gingerly slipped his coat back on.  

“Thanks for the doctoring, Mogs,” he told her, and vanished out the tent flap before she could do more than throw the wet rag at him in retaliation.

“Don’t call me _Mogs,_ Barnes,” she hissed through the darkness.  There was no way to tell if he’d heard her or not, and she huffed with exasperation as she went back to her interrupted bath.  The water had cooled, but it was better than nothing.

* * *

 It was only later, rolled tightly into her scratchy blanket, that Peggy realized insanity must be contagious.  Neither she nor any of the Howling Commandos had known Steve as long as Bucky had, but she was decently certain that any one of them would put everything on the line for their captain.

With a groan, she rolled over and addressed her canteen sternly.  “We’re a unit made up of hotheads and hopelessly devoted fools.”

Not surprisingly, her canteen didn’t answer.  Peggy studied it a moment longer and then snapped off her light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Due to their shape, WWII helmets were used for a large variety of purposes, not least of which was holding water in lieu of a bowl. There are countless stories and photographs of soldiers taking sponge baths or shaving, using their helmet as a makeshift sink.
> 
> Mogs is another nickname for Margaret, which is Peggy's full name. Mogs can also be a British pet name for a cat. I ran across this nickname some years ago, and it came to mind when I was looking for something Bucky would be likely to call her and something Peggy would be equally likely to get annoyed at. :)


	7. Yellow Envelope

**Yellow Envelope**

* * *

They were camping in Italy when the message finally reached them. Steve was busy going over the dispatch notes, so Bucky was the only one who saw the messenger hand the yellow envelope to Peggy Carter. With a furrow between her eyebrows, she stepped away from the campfire before fumbling it open.

It was hard to read her expression in the dim flickering light, but her hand flew to her mouth and she stood stock still for a long moment, rereading the little yellow slip. Then, crumpling the paper in her hand, she turned and slipped away between the tents.

“Steve,” Bucky made his way to his friend’s side. “Steve.”

There must have been urgency in his voice, because the captain lifted his head immediately.  “What's wrong, Buck?”

Not wanting to bellow out Peggy’s business in front of the whole camp, Bucky pulled his friend away from the rest of the men in the direction she had gone. “Carter got a message. Pretty sure it's bad news.”

* * *

 They reached the edge of the camp, and Steve could see Peggy sitting on a stone outcropping perhaps fifty yards away.  Her arms were wrapped around herself as if to fend off a chill, although the night was warm.

Bucky elbowed him in the ribs. “Go to her, Steve.”  Steve threw him an incredulous look, but Bucky was adamant. “She needs a shoulder to cry on, and it ain't mine.”

“I don't know what to do, though.” Steve whispered back, panic blooming in his chest. “What if I offend her?”

“Then I'll give you a nice funeral,” Bucky promised.  “You won't offend her, you punk.  Just go sit next to her.”

The dead leaves from the previous fall rustled around Steve’s shoes as he stepped out of the cluster of tents. She didn't seem to hear him coming, and he didn't know what to say, so he just sat next to her in silence, leaning his elbows on his knees.

At length she made a shaking sound that could have been a laugh or a sob.  “Come to make sure I don't get lost?”

Steve studied her profile in the moonlight, and the wet tear tracks gleaming down her cheeks. “Heard you got bad news.”

Peggy swallowed hard and nodded, tracing a pattern in the dead leaves with her toe. “It's all right; it won't affect my work.”

“I don't care about your work.” Steve suddenly realized how that sounded, and tried to backtrack. “I mean, of course I care about your work, but it isn’t - I’m not - I'm just worried about you.”  

He wasn't sure that sounded any better, but she didn't seem to be angry.  Steve tried again.  “Want to talk about it?”

She tried, taking two or three breaths.  “My fath-” she started and then choked, shaking her head. Instead, she held out a crumpled ball of paper.  Steve took it, flattening it out between his fingers. “You okay if I read this?” he asked, and she nodded.

When he was done, he looked over at her face with new concern. “Peggy…”

She sucked in a shaking breath through her nose and looked up at the sky before covering her face with her hands. He knew she was crying and felt suddenly clumsy, impelled by a mighty need to comfort her but not sure what to do.

Throwing a desperate glance back towards the camp, he saw Bucky making exaggerated motions with his arms. It took a minute to translate his meaning, but when he did, Steve felt his heart give a funny little hop sideways.

Carefully, tentatively, Steve edged closer and put his arm around her shoulders. He wasn't quite sure what to do with his hand, so he curled his fingers loosely around her upper arm and froze, waiting for her to shoot him for his daring.

Peggy didn't reach for her gun, although he felt her go still at his touch.  Then, with a choking gasp, she leaned into him and put her head on his shoulder.  She didn't make a sound after that; just wept silently into his coat, and Steve gently tightened his arm, supporting her as she shook.  Bucky gave him a thumbs-up when he looked over for more guidance, and then unhelpfully vanished into the shadows.

Left alone, heartlessly abandoned by his friend, Steve looked back down at the girl against his side. He couldn't help but notice how well she fit there, and how good it felt to hold her, even in tragic conditions like these.  Still, this wasn't the time for thoughts like that. Right now Peggy needed a shoulder to lean on.  Steve had good, strong shoulders; he could do that much for her.

At last she pulled back and he took the hint, opening his arm so she could sit up.  She fumbled for her handkerchief but he beat her to it, offering his own a little shyly.

“Those dreadful Nazis,” she finally said, wiping her eyes, “and their horrid, horrid bombs.” Her voice was choked and unsteady, and it broke his heart.

Steve didn't know what to say. He thought he might try to put his arm around her one more time, but she was speaking again, looking down and twisting his handkerchief between her hands.

“I can't even remember the last thing he said to me.”  She looked out blankly, eyes wet in the moonlight. “We said goodbye at the station, but I can't remember.  Steve, I’ve lost my home and all the family I had left, and I can’t even remember his last words.”

He let his shoulder brush hers, and she leaned against it for a moment before swiping almost ferociously at her face.  “I hate crying.”

“You know you’re not alone, right?”

He hadn’t meant to say it, but when she didn't reply, he knew he had found a tender spot, and he understood completely.  When his mother had died, he had felt supremely alone, cut adrift in a vast sea of people who didn’t care what became of him.  Bucky had been there for him then, and now it was his turn.

“You have me,” he started counting, “and Bucky and the Commandos and Colonel Phillips and - me…” the list suddenly seemed shorter than it had in his head, and he faltered to a stop.

Peggy laughed shakily, though there were tears in the sound.  “You counted yourself twice.”

“Well, I’m certainly big enough to count as two people.”  Steve kept his voice light, and was satisfied when she shoved him with her shoulder.  He knew a silly joke could never even begin to touch her grief - only time could do that - but at least it was a start.

“I know it doesn't fix anything,” he continued, gesturing vaguely, “But after all this is over, if you need a place - if you want, you can come back to Brooklyn with us.  I know a real nice old lady with a vacant room you can rent, and I - we’d be glad to have you near.  You won’t be alone.”

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes with a long sigh, and then looked up at him.  Her eyes were red and swollen, and her nose was puffy.  She was beautiful.  

“Thank you, Steve,” she told him quietly.  The soft curve of her mouth quivered miserably, and she bit her lip before steadying her voice and continuing. “You're a good man.”

Wild horses couldn't have moved him after that, and he put his arm around her again, a little more boldly. They sat together late into the night, two young people in a world at war, and watched the stars as they blinked on in the sky above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> London and the surrounding areas were bombed by the Nazis most heavily from 1940-1941 (the time period known as the Blitz), but bombing continued all the way until the end of the war, resulting in thousands of civilian casualties. 
> 
> Peggy Carter grew up in Hampstead. Hampstead is a beautiful area of London, a little ways out of town, though they've since grown together. During the course of the war, thousands of incendiary and explosive bombs fell there, damaging over 13,000 homes and killing roughly 200 people.
> 
> Thanks for the comments and all the love! They make my life so happy!


	8. He Ain't Heavy

**He Ain't Heavy**

* * *

“This is so wrong,” Bucky Barnes panted heavily.  Steve laughed, although those who knew him well would be able to detect the edge of tension in his voice.

“Shut up, Buck,” he retorted good-naturedly. “Save your breath.”

Bucky sucked in a lungful of air and staggered, hanging onto Steve’s sleeve for dear life. “Feel like some swooning dame,” he grumbled. 

“Don't let Peggy hear you talk like that,” Captain Rogers warned. “Besides, dames don't usually catch grenades with their heads. You're doing great.”

He really wished that Bucky would agree to be carried, but the jerk was far too independent for that. Even after he’d been rescued from the Hydra camp after Azzano, Bucky had fended off offers of help.  This time wasn't going to be any different. 

* * *

The mission had been a disaster from the beginning.

The two of them had been separated from the rest of the Commandos, and Steve promptly ran into an ambush. Bucky, stationed on higher ground, had seen the danger, but had risen up a little too high to take the shot. One of Hydra’s men chucked a grenade at him, and Steve looked up just in time to see his best friend fly fifteen feet and fall face-down into the bushes. 

Even now, long after, just thinking about it made Steve’s stomach clench. The rest of the fight had been a blur, only clearing when he reached Bucky’s side, turning him over with shaking hands, terrified of what he might find. 

“Buck!  Hey, Buck?”

It had seemed an age before Bucky cracked open blurry eyes, staring at Steve for a moment before groaning and letting his eyelids slide shut.  “Oh, don't tell me there's _two_ of you now.”

The explosion had dented the sergeant's helmet and singed his hair, leaving him with a concussion and nagging double vision that he couldn't seem to shake. Confused, he had argued earnestly with Steve for twenty minutes, insisting that the three of them split up to follow and surround the enemy. 

Unable to convince his friend that there was only one of him and that the enemy was long gone, Steve eventually gave up trying.  Bucky wasn't steady enough to walk on his own, and stoutly refused to be carried, swearing rather fluently at whichever Steve he thought was trying to do so.  At the end of his resources, the captain finally threaded his arm around Bucky, half-lifted him to his feet by main force, and set off toward the rendezvous point. 

Walking seemed to clear his head - after an hour, Bucky stopped talking to two different Steves, and leveled a suspicious glare at the captain. 

“Where’d th'other Steve go?” he slurred warily.  Steve paused, leaning his friend up against a tree and checking the blown pupils.  One was still larger than the other, but his gaze was a little more lucid.  Bucky ducked petulantly away from his hand and swung an uncoordinated fist that the captain easily dodged.

“There’s just one of me, Bucky,” he patiently explained for the hundredth time.  

Bucky squinted into his face, struggling to focus.  “Are you the stupid Steve or the pigheaded Steve?”

Steve snorted with sudden laughter.  “Take your pick, Buck, ‘cause I’m the only one there is.  You got hit, and I’m taking you home.”

“Home?” asked Bucky, and suddenly there was longing in his voice. “Brooklyn?”

Steve’s heart sank, but he tightened his grip on his friend, resuming their uneven march and keeping his tone upbeat.  “No, Buck, not Brooklyn.  Not yet.  Back to camp, remember?  We’ve still got some bullies to beat.”

“Bullies.”  Bucky frowned, thinking hard and almost walking into a tree.  “Yeah, bullies.  Stick with me, kid.  We’ll lick ‘em together.”

* * *

_ “Stick with me, kid.  We’ll lick them bullies good.” _

_ Steve Rogers blinked up through his least swollen eye, trying to focus on the face of the boy currently half-dragging him down the street.  Tousled dark hair stood on end, and a sweaty, grubby arm was tight around his waist. _

_ “Bucky?” he asked, confused.  Bucky grinned down into his face, displaying the gaps where his two loose teeth had fallen out.  One was starting to grow back in, and it left him with a lopsided sort of look. _

_ “Sure thing, punk.  Here, let’s stop by my place, clean you up.  Your ma’s gonna skin me alive if she sees you like this.” _

_ Steve promptly doubled over and threw up, head swimming.  Bucky dragged him to the sidewalk, and propped him up against a lamppost.  For a few minutes they just sat, dangling their feet into the gutter, Steve miserably hugging his stomach, trying not to throw up again.   _

_ Eventually Bucky began digging through his pockets, unloading handful after handful of rocks, string, and bottlecaps before triumphantly pulling out a very grubby excuse for a handkerchief.  Scrambling to his knees, he started wiping the dirt and blood off his smaller friend’s face.  His ministrations were rough, but well meant, and he masterfully ignored Steve’s squirms. _

_ “We’ll show them,” Bucky promised earnestly, scrubbing at a patch of dried blood until Steve yelped and swatted at him.  “You and me, we’ll show them.  We’ll show the whole world, just you wait and see.” _

* * *

“This isn’t right,” Bucky complained again, stubbornly trying to keep both feet going.

“Sorry,” Steve apologized, trying to adjust his grip to be more comfortable for his friend, but Bucky shook his head.

“Not that,” he tried to elaborate, gesturing vaguely.  “This.  I’m s’posed to take care of you, not the other way ‘round.”  He sounded puzzled, concerned that he was missing something.

Steve swallowed hard, more deeply touched than he would let on, and they covered several more yards before he found his voice.  “Aw, Buck - you know I don't mind.”  He reached over with his free hand and ruffled the dark head bobbing beside his.  “What are brothers for, anyway?”

“Punk,” grumbled Bucky, sounding more like himself than he had in hours.

“Jerk,” Steve automatically retorted, and took a little more of Bucky’s weight as the rendezvous point finally came into sight up ahead.  The Howling Commandos were already there, and Peggy’s dark curls stood out as she started hurrying towards him, Morita and Dugan at her heels.

No, it wasn’t home, but it was pretty close.  With a breath of relief, Steve readjusted his hold on his brother and stepped forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is taken from the popular slogan “He ain't heavy - he's my brother,” which, according to the all-knowing Wikipedia, has been hanging around since the late 1800’s. 
> 
> Like this? Then let me know! You wouldn't believe how encouraged your comments make me. 
> 
> Have a great day, everybody!


	9. Public Displays of Affection

**Public Displays of Affection**

* * *

The little café was small and dark and crowded, and Steve struggled to fit his knees under the table.  Finally giving up, he pulled his chair at an angle, and turned his face a little deeper into the shadow of the wall.  If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn the whole place was one of the sets he’d seen during his short stint in the movies.

“Think we’ve been stood up?” he asked, and Bucky shrugged, tugging at the collar of his borrowed jacket with distaste.  Dernier swirled his drink thoughtfully. They’d been waiting for over an hour, dressed undercover as civilians, with no sign of the French Resistance members they had come to meet.  

The outer door swung open, and Peggy slipped in. Steve straightened, only to feel a bite of concern as he realized she was alone. She had been waiting outside, keeping an eye out for their proposed guests.

Agent Carter was their only connection with the resistance group in question, and she and Dernier were the only two of the Commandos with good French. Steve’s own accent would give him away if tested for long, and Bucky’s French was almost nonexistent.  He knew a few nasty insults and how to order drinks, but that was it.

“I don’t think they’re coming.”  Peggy perched on the edge of the table, shaking her head when Steve started to offer her his seat. Like the rest of them, she was in civilian dress.  He couldn't quite figure out how to tell her, but she looked - really nice.

“We don’t have time to get comfortable,” she cautioned, peering into Dernier’s drink and handing it back with a grimace.  “If they’re not here, I’m willing to bet something’s gone wrong.”

Steve nodded, pulling out a few coins to lay on the table.  “Let’s clear out,” he agreed, and stood to go.  Behind him, the outer door swung open.

Peggy’s sudden intake of breath was the only warning he got before Bucky’s hand knotted into the hem of his jacket, yanking him back down.  “Don’t look around,” he growled in an undertone.  “We got company.”

In the doubtfully clean surface of Bucky’s mug, Steve could see the blurry outlines of several Nazis entering the café.  Ducking his head, Steve tried very hard to look even more inconspicuous than before.  Of the four of them, he was the most recognizable.  At the moment, his back was to the door, but if the Nazi soldiers decided to move around at all, their cover would be blown.

“Get out of here,” he ordered softly.  They were soldiers in enemy territory, out of uniform.  If they were caught, hanging would be the best case scenario.  “One by one.  I’ll meet you down behind the little hotel.  If I’m not there in a half hour, get the others and clear out of town.”

Peggy dutifully translated his words into fluent French for Dernier’s sake, but she had the stubborn look around her jawline that Steve knew so well - he had practically patented the look himself, after all.  He ignored it for now, turning to Dernier.  “You first, Jacques.  Go.”

Dernier had once been a member of the resistance, and had been caught before.  Steve wasn’t about to let that happen to him again.  The Frenchman hesitated a moment and then rose to his feet, clapping the captain once on the shoulder before walking toward the door.  

Steve concentrated on a dark stain on the table, listening to Dernier’s footsteps as he crossed the room.  The man moved achingly slowly, probably trying for a casual air.  Captain Rogers felt like every muscle in his body was stretched tight as a wire by the time the outer door clicked closed, and their friend was out.

Allowing himself one short breath of relief, Steve turned to Peggy.  “Agent, you’re next.”

“You can’t speak French or German without an accent thick enough to cut with a knife,” she snapped back, a trifle unfairly.  “Think about this logically - I’m staying.”

He had known she wouldn’t go easily, but sending Bucky was going to be harder - he could see that just from the set of his friend’s jaw as he crossed his arms.

“Don’t look at me, punk,” Bucky hissed.  “I’m not going until you do.”

Steve filled his lungs, ready to try something that would probably end badly, but the words died in his throat at the sudden look of worry that leapt into Peggy’s face.

“What’s happening?” he asked, locking his eyes into the shadows until they ached.  

Bucky answered, voice tight.  “Yeah, it’s no coincidence they’re here.  Somebody must have tipped them off.  They’re checking every guy in the room, real casual.”

Curling his hands into fists, Steve swore internally.  They were trapped like rats and the room was full of civilians who would get caught in any crossfire.  If everything failed, if the Germans saw his face, if they recognized him as Captain America, he had limited options. Staying in here would put innocent lives in danger, but if the three of them managed to break out into the street they would be shot like dogs in the open.

Steve’s stomach curdled. He probably wouldn't die as fast as his friends - he would have to watch as they went down.

“Get out if you can, Buck,” he demanded more forcefully.  “Peggy, they won't know you. Join another table.”

“They’re not looking for us,” Bucky shook his head.  “They will recognize you though. Peg, we got to hide his face better.”

She paused, and then spoke decidedly.  “Right, then.  Steve, do try not to take this personally.”

Steve was never entirely clear on what happened next; only that suddenly his lap was full, and a firm hand came around the back of his head, jerking it forward until his nose jammed into her collarbone.  He must have gasped, but the sound was muffled in the fabric of her dress.  

“Um.” he managed articulately.  

Off to his right he could hear Bucky sniggering.  He aimed a kick in that direction, but missed entirely.  Peggy’s voice was low in his ear when she spoke.  “Barnes, quit behaving like an adolescent.  Steve, for pity’s sake, stop flailing and try to look like you’re enjoying this.”

Flailing?  Oh, right.  Steve brought his hands around and tried to figure out what to do with them.  Eventually he tentatively settled them both on what he hoped was her waist - it seemed inoffensive enough.  Something hard was beneath one palm, and after a brief, bewildered moment he realized it was a gun, hidden somewhere inside her dress.

Of course Peggy would have a gun under the frilly, flouncy thing she was wearing.  He would have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so serious.

“Relax,” she hissed into his ear, and he tried.  It was hard though, with her weight on his knees and her hair tickling his face and her arms around his head and shoulders - and was that her heart he could feel beating, or his?  He wasn’t sure.

She giggled brightly, suddenly, a very un-Peggy-like sound, dragging his head closer against her and playing with his hair - ruffling it up or something.  Steve realized suddenly that his hands were clenched at her sides, and he gentled his hold at once.  Boy, he hoped he hadn’t hurt her.

“Sorry,” he gasped into her dress.  She smelled like regulation soap, with a whiff of something sweeter that he couldn’t place.  Off to his right he could hear a drunken snore - Bucky was probably pretending to sleep on the table.

The sound of military boots hitting the floor came closer, and Steve closed his eyes, leaning into Peggy Carter, trusting her.  It was all he could do.  He had faith in her abilities.

The boots stopped beside his chair.

Peggy whispered and giggled into his ear, a long string of endearing French that made his ears burn - what he could catch of it, anyway. Steve hoped to high heaven that the fabric of her dress was thick enough that she wouldn't feel the heat of him blushing straight through it. Instead, he got a better grip on her waist. If everything went wrong, he planned to shove her under the table and out of the line of fire.

The boots shuffled and scraped. Bucky groaned at being disturbed, blearily ordering another drink, words slurred enough to hide his telltale American accent. He wasn't as famous as Steve was - people usually didn't recognize him unless the two were together.

A floorboard creaked.  

Peggy’s breath was warm on his cheek, and her hand was in his hair as she used her own body to mask his.  Somebody across the room laughed, and all around them was the bustle of ordinary French citizens eating and drinking, unaware of the drama playing out in the corner.

Any minute now, a hand would fall on his shoulder, and he would be forced to look up.  Not for the first time, Steve wished he wasn’t quite so recognizable.  Every nerve stood on end, trying to somehow sense the soldier who stood so near, trying to anticipate the man’s next move.

And then, incredibly, the footsteps retreated.  

Steve felt Peggy sag ever so slightly in relief, and his own breath suddenly came easier.  He tried to raise his head, but she wouldn’t let go.  “Don’t move,” she told him very quietly, lips brushing his ear.  “They’re still here.”

It felt an age before the Nazis left.  They made the rounds of the café, but apparently were satisfied at last that the men they were looking for had fled.  

Finally they were gone, and Peggy sat back.  She looked composed as always, though her cheeks were a little pinker than normal.  Steve, on the other hand, was pretty sure his hair was standing on end from all the time she’d spent playing with it.  He blinked, looking at her.  

“Thanks,” he said at last. The word was far too small for what she had done. Through her presence of mind, she had saved his life and undoubtedly the lives of those seated around them.  Whether the soldier had been uncomfortable staring at an infatuated couple, or a romantic, unwilling to interrupt their ‘tryst,’ Steve figured he would never know.

Don't mention it,” she answered, and seemed to be biting back a smile. “You can let me go now, Captain,” she told him pointedly.

Oh. Of course.  Steve quickly got his hands off of her, and she rose, smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress. Behind her, Bucky’s shoulders shook convulsively. Steve took a breath and then jolted back to the mission at hand.

“We should go,” he said, throwing a cautious look over his shoulder before standing. If their friends in the resistance had been compromised, they would need to get out of the city before enemy forces swooped down on them again.

* * *

They found Dernier behind the little hotel, worried nearly out of his mind, five minutes after the scheduled half-hour had elapsed. Steve mentally threw up his hands in despair, resigned to the fact that he had a stupidly loyal band of insubordinates. He wasn't sure if it was a comforting thought or not.

Up ahead, Peggy led the way, more familiar with the back roads than the rest of them. Her dress fluttered playfully in the warm breeze, and though Steve looked as closely as he dared, he could see no sign of her hidden gun. He shook his head admiringly - Peggy Carter was something else.

He had never known anybody quite like her. She was - amazing.

Bucky dropped back beside him, shoving him with his shoulder, grinning.  “Your ears are still red.”

Steve felt them burn hotter. “Shut up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable, you know. ;)
> 
> Like it? Then consider telling me. It's been a very long day.
> 
> Thanks for dropping by!


	10. It's Called a Parachute

**It’s Called a Parachute**

* * *

Steve set his teeth, kneeling over the wounded radio operator and applying pressure to his leg.  The plane had been badly damaged - the tower and tail gunners and the flight engineer were dead, and the nose gunner struggled to man his weapon with one useable arm, doggedly shaking his head at any offer of medical aid.  

Officially, Captain America wasn’t even supposed to be there.  The brass back in London had wanted him to come in for some reason or other, so one of the B-17s that flew regular bombing raids on the continent had made an unscheduled and highly irregular landing to pick him up from where he and the Commandos were stationed in Italy.

The whole pickup had gone off without a hitch.  Steve had been waiting at the makeshift airstrip, and the pilot managed a rather impressive landing and takeoff on the short runway.  However, the delay had left the bomber far behind the rest of the formation and the sight of a lone B-17 was simply too much for the Nazis to resist.  

For miles, they had fought off waves of fighter plane and anti-aircraft attacks, the rattle of machine gun fire reverberating through the metal hull as the gunners tried to keep the enemy at bay and the pilot tried to stay on course.  At last, too close to the English Channel for comfort, the enemy planes had dropped behind.

Whether the B-17 would made it safely to land, however, remained to be seen.  The tail had been shot to pieces, and wind whistled in through gaping holes in the metal.  Communications were gone, one of the four engines was knocked out completely, and a plume of dark smoke trailed from another.  

Not for the first time, Steve wished he knew something about engineering.  It wasn’t anything he’d ever had the opportunity to learn, but he had the feeling it would come in awfully handy sometime.

The pilot suddenly swore as the smoking engine burst into flames.  Below the plane was water, and somewhere ahead lay England, but it didn’t take a genius to know that the so-called ‘flying fortress’ wasn’t going to make it.

“Captain,” he hollered over his shoulder, gripping the steering column with both hands.  “Get those men outta here.  This bird’s going down.”

The bombadier and the two waist gunners turned toward the gaping hole in the tail even as the nose gunner crawled out from his cramped position, fighting to drag his parachute behind him with his one good hand.  Steve scooted to his side, roughly checking the buckles and pushing the man toward the tail. 

“Don’t pass out,” he ordered the wounded man he’d been tending, and tore off his belt, tightening it around the leg as a makeshift tourniquet.  The plane shuddered from end to end, and Steve’s ears popped with the change in altitude.  Up in front, the pilot and co-pilot were having a quiet argument.

The radio operator gritted his teeth as Steve hustled him across the plane to the hole.  The bombadier had waited, and reached out, helping his buddy jump.  Then the co-pilot stumbled to his feet, parachute in hand, and limped to the hole, jumping into space.

Steve turned to the pilot, but the man was still at his post.  

“Jump, Rogers,” he ordered harshly, yelling above the roar of the wind.  Steve started to protest, but the pilot cut him off.  “I don’t care what your rank is - you’re on my plane, and I’m the pilot.  Get a parachute off one of my men and get off this coffin before we crash.”

Parachutes were part of the standard gear for an airman. Steve wasn't wearing one, and he realized the pilot was sacrificing his own life, staying at the controls, fighting to stay in the air long enough for the captain to get out of the doomed plane. 

There was only enough time to do one thing - either try to get a ‘chute off one of the dead men to use for himself, or save the pilot. 

It wasn’t even a question.

Steve had never used sheer physical strength against someone on his own side before, but that didn’t stop him from yanking the pilot out of his seat.  Immediately, the plane went into a steep dive.  Clutching the struggling man, Steve dragged him up the sloped floor, throwing him out of the hole as hard as he could, clear of the doomed plane.  Then, with his heart pounding in his ears, he jumped.

* * *

Captain Steven Rogers was missing in action, presumed dead.  

The B-17 wasn't reported as missing for a ridiculously long time.  The officials knew it had a secret ‘package’ to pick up, and they expected it would be late.  Only after other bomber formations reported seeing a lone plane crash into the channel did they start to get worried.

They had found the men, parachutes spread out soggily over the waves like beacons, life vests keeping them afloat.  The gunner would lose his arm, but would live.  The others had been more or less all right, though exhausted.

The pilot was the last to be found.  The co-pilot claimed the man had refused to leave his ship, but there he was, floating half-conscious in the water amid the spreading canvas of his own parachute.  He told his story from the hospital bed they put him in - Captain Rogers had thrown him bodily from the plane before jumping.  Search parties had immediately gone back out, scouring the area for Captain America, but there was no sign of the man.

Twenty-four hours later, the search was finally called off, and Colonel Phillips was notified.

Five hours after that, Steve Rogers walked into a military outpost at Brighton, soaking wet and ravenously hungry.

* * *

It was another four days before Steve got back to his team. He’d gone as far as he could with one of the other units, and then hitched a ride with a supply truck.  The Commandos were having breakfast when he finally found them.

“Hey, boys,” he said, pulling off his helmet with a sigh and sniffing the air with interest.  Oatmeal again - well, it stuck to a man’s ribs, if nothing else.  “Where’s the colonel?”

Bucky dropped his plate face-down into the mud.  

“Steve?” he asked cautiously, blinking hard as if he didn’t trust his own eyes.  The rest of the Commandos stared, wide-eyed.

“Um, yeah?”  Steve answered, confused.  “Look, Buck, if you’re gonna throw your breakfast around, at least let me…”

He couldn’t finish his sentence - Bucky had him in a headlock.  Surprised, he staggered backward, unresisting.  He could have broken the hold easily, but it would probably have meant breaking his friend’s arm too.  “Um, Buck?”

“Do that again,” Bucky finally hissed angrily in his ear, and his voice was thicker than usual, “do that again, and I swear, Stevie, I will throw a shovel after you and let you dig your own grave.”

“Sorry?” Steve tried, and his friend finally let him go, swinging around to jab a finger in his chest.

“When you’re in the air,  _ you wear a parachute _ .  Whaddya think you are, invincible or something?  You’re gonna get yourself killed someday trying something foolhardy!”  

Steve blinked with sudden realization.  “You thought I was dead.”  It wasn’t a question.  Bucky’s shoulders sagged in shuddering relief, but his jaw stayed set, and he punched Steve in the shoulder.

“You went down in the water without a parachute, without a Mae West, nothing.  Declared MIA after twenty four hours.”  His voice got louder until he was shouting.  “They wouldn’t spend any more time looking for you, Steve.  Carter  _ cried _ .”

The idea of Peggy Carter crying over him was as awful as it was intriguing, and Steve’s heart did something complicated.  “She did?”

“Yeah.”  Bucky took a deep breath, obviously trying to get a handle on himself.  “She did.  Not in front of anybody, but she did.”

“Who did what?”  Peggy stalked through the trees, swinging her gun off her shoulder.  Then she saw Steve standing awkwardly in the middle of the Commandos and froze.

“Steve,” she breathed, face open and astonished.  Then her eyes narrowed, and her lips tightened, and she started toward him.

Steve took a step backward.  “Hide me, Bucky,” he begged in an undertone, but Bucky was absolutely no help.

“You brought this on yourself, punk,” he reminded his friend, rocking back on his heels.  “Shoulda worn the parachute.”

Eyes jumping between Peggy’s face and her gun, Steve raised his hands in surrender, backpedaling until he almost ran into a tree.  The last time she had been this angry, she had chosen to test his shield in a rather destructive manner.  “Don’t shoot, Peg,” he cautioned.  “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Peggy didn’t slow down, marching straight up to him and grabbing the front of his uniform in an iron grip.  For a moment her gaze flickered across his face, and he held his breath, even as she tightened her fist.  

Nobody spoke.

At last Peggy caught her breath with something faintly like a sob, glaring fiercely.

“It’s called a parachute,” she told him, shaking him a little with the force of her hold.  Her eyes were very dangerous.  “Use one next time.”

Steve tried to look repentant.  “There wasn’t enough time, and I couldn’t let the pilot die, Peg.  He had a wife and kid at home.”  He’d seen the picture taped just by the throttle.

Peggy ground her fist into his chest, twisting his uniform and pushing him back another half step.  “And don’t you think there are people here who would miss you?” she furiously demanded.

Her lips were very red, and her eyes were very bright, and Steve promptly forgot all about the gun in her other hand.  “Are there?” he asked curiously, fixing her with his most earnest gaze.  “Would you?”

The Commandos held their collective breath.

Then Colonel Phillips shattered the moment.  “Good news, boys,” he called, stumping toward them from the command tent, dispatch in hand.  He missed a step in surprise at seeing Steve Rogers standing with the rest of them.  Peggy let go of the front of Steve’s uniform, stepping back and raising her chin, trying not to look as though she’d just been manhandling Captain America.  Steve wasn’t as quick to snap to attention, following Peggy with his eyes for a moment longer before turning toward his commanding officer.

Dugan sighed with disappointment and handed a triumphant Falsworth the last inch of his chocolate bar. 

The colonel looked Captain Rogers up and down for a solid thirty seconds, and then shrugged.  “Son of a gun,” he mumbled under his breath.  “Well, Captain, I have the honor to inform you that you’re no longer MIA.  They found you days ago, and finally decided to let me know.”  He shuffled papers in his hand, and then frowned.  “Also, it seems you’re supposed to be in Brighton, recuperating.”

Steve shifted his feet guiltily.  Colonel Phillips rolled his eyes skyward.

“Fine,” he grumbled.  I’ll go send a message to somebody that you’re here.”  He turned to walk away, but then paused.  “Actually, you’d better come along.  I’d like to debrief you before Carter starts shooting.”

After the two men had left, Peggy reached for her share of the breakfast, deliberately not making eye contact with anyone.  Bucky picked up his plate, grimacing at the dirt and leaves that were stuck to what was left of his food.

“He’s an utter imbecile,” Peggy finally burst out.  Bucky nodded solemnly.

“Hasn’t changed a bit since he was five,” he pointed out, picking a stick out of his plate.  “But he wouldn’t be Steve if he was any other way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because if Steve can jump out of an airplane without a parachute in Winter Soldier, there must have been a point when he discovered he could do it in the first place - and I don’t think Bucky or Peggy would have been very happy about that.
> 
> "Mae West" is WWII slang for a life jacket, in case you were wondering. :)
> 
> Known as "Flying Fortresses," B-17's were known for the incredible amount of damage they could take before going down. I have never been in one, but from the other WWII aircraft I have been inside, they would be noisy, comfortless, and non-pressurized.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	11. Viscum Album

**_Viscum Album_ **

* * *

Gunfire rattled through the trees and Steve Rogers threw himself face-down on the ground, one hand snaking out to grab Peggy’s ankle and yank her down beside him.  The sudden impact with the ground knocked the air out of her lungs with a rush, and she heaved painfully for breath even as she rolled sideways.

“You okay?” Steve hollered in her ear, and she nodded, leaning against the base of the tree.  Something hit the trunk above her head, and splinters flew.

Oh, lovely.  She hated combing wood out of her hair.

The orchard would have provided far better cover if it had been even a few weeks earlier.  However, the year was growing old, and some of the trees were nearly bare, leaves stripped by the changing weather and gunfire until all that was left were scattered bushy clumps.  The whole place was filled with the sweet smell of rotting leaves and fruit.  Steve had smashed pulp all down one sleeve, and Peggy was pretty sure she was sitting on a mushy apple.

For a moment she spared a thought, wondering about the owners of this land.  They had probably fled ages ago, or been killed - food was not plentiful enough in these dark days to let trees full of fruit go to waste.

Another bullet skimmed past the tree trunk, just catching the ends of Peggy’s hair, and she yelped in surprise, flattening against the ground.  Steve rolled over until he was lying next to her and propped the shield over their heads, giving them a little more shelter to hide behind.

“Now what?” she demanded, slamming a new clip into her gun and firing around the edge of the metal.  Steve had that determined set to his mouth that meant he was thinking something she wouldn’t like.

“Well,” the captain craned his neck to get a look at her wristwatch, since both his hands were busy.  “Dernier was supposed to start the first distraction about thirty seconds ago.”

Muffled footsteps scrambled through the damp layer of fallen leaves behind them and Peggy swung around, nearly shooting Bucky Barnes before she realized who it was.

“Good to see you too, Mogs,” the sergeant grinned, flopping into the nonexistent space between Steve and the tree. Steve shifted the shield so it provided slightly better cover, freeing one hand long enough to twist his fist into Peggy’s jacket and pull her closer so the three of them could fit.

“Jacques can't get into position,” Bucky explained breathlessly, dodging the smack Peggy aimed at his shoulder over Steve’s broad back. She hated his nickname for her.  “There's a sniper in the way, and this is the best angle to get at him.”

For the first time, the other two noticed he had his own rifle with him. Rolling onto his side, Bucky carefully adjusted it with quick, sure hands.  Steve gave him as much room as possible, but they were operating in crowded quarters, three people lying flat on the ground, trusting a shield and tree trunk to protect them.

“Do you know where he is?” asked Steve, and Bucky nodded jerkily, eyes on his work.

“Yeah - right straight across from here.”  He propped himself on his elbows, carefully aiming at a spot on the inside of the shield. Peggy lay down as flat as she could, pressing her face against the ground in preparation for what was to come. A rotten apple squished unpleasantly against her cheek, and she privately swore a solemn oath to herself never to eat applesauce again.

Bucky nodded then, once, completely focused. Steve didn't need to be told, dropping the shield just long enough to let his friend pull the trigger before raising it again. They did that sometimes, working seamlessly without words, and it reminded Peggy just how long the two men had known each other.

The movement of the bright shield attracted an extra peppering of shots, and they all hunkered down, waiting it out.

“You got him?” Steve grunted, and Bucky nodded grimly, eyes hard.  

“Yeah, I got ‘im.”

Peggy shook her head, wonderingly.  The man was the best sniper she had ever known. He had been aiming blind and could hardly have seen the outcome of his shot with how quickly Steve had pulled his shield back into place - and yet he was completely positive he had hit his target.

For another minute the three huddled together in silence, waiting for Dernier’s distraction.  Peggy busied herself by trying to wipe her face clean with her sleeve, but was pretty sure she had only made things worse.

Suddenly Bucky started to laugh. Whipping her head around with a tart retort on her tongue, Peggy paused when she realized he wasn't laughing at her. Instead, he was gazing up into the branches overhead before glancing over at Steve with a wicked gleam in his eye. The captain blinked back, just as confused as Peggy was.

“Nice choice of tree, Steve,” Bucky chortled gleefully. “Give me a minute, and I'll leave you both to it.”

Puzzled, Peggy looked back up into the branches. They weren't anything special, with the odd apple or scrubby tangle of leaves dotting the limbs. Narrowing her eyes, she looked twice at the leaves. Something wasn't quite right. Since when did apple trees grow little waxy berries?

Oh.

Peggy felt her eyes grow wide, and she very carefully sneaked a sideways look at Steve. She couldn't see his face, but both ears had gone bright red.

“Bucky!” he hissed, aghast. Bucky shrugged artlessly, grinning like a boy, the merciless sniper he'd been a few minutes ago suddenly vanished.

“Hey, I know it ain't Christmas yet, but that's your business.”

Steve stammered some kind of denial, and Peggy peered up at the branches again.  Hidden among the remaining leaves grew parasitic clumps of mistletoe, berries just beginning to turn white.  One particularly large cluster hung almost directly over her head, and she felt her own cheeks heat.

Dernier’s first explosion suddenly ripped through the air, relieving the tension.

“That’s my cue,” Bucky sang out, gathering himself, ready to run back to his post.  “See you two at the rendezvous.”  With a saucy wink, he was gone, bolting low through the weeds.  The gunners who had been firing on their position had been distracted by the sudden fireball to the east, and for the moment, things were comparatively quiet.

“Um.”  Steve’s ears were still red.  “I really didn’t - I mean, I had no idea…”

“Of course not,” Peggy hurried to say, interrupting him, avoiding eye contact.  “Weren’t we supposed to…”

“Yeah.”  Steve was intently focused on the back of his shield, bracing it as if he were expecting a rocket blast instead of scattered gunfire.  “One more minute - got to give Jones a head start.”

Peggy watched him blush for another moment, amused, and then checked her watch.  Steve shifted his weight beside her, and she moved her wrist between them, thinking he was trying to look at the time again.

Instead, in that brief half-second of distraction, Steve leaned in and kissed her.

It was just a swift peck really, high up on her cheek in what was probably the only clean spot on her face, but it was entirely unexpected.  Peggy felt her jaw drop in absolute shock as she turned to face him.  He offered her a very careful grin, the scarlet creeping from his ears to suffuse his entire face, eyes wide with the mix of courage and adrenaline and foolhardy bravado that had led him to do such a thing.

“Merry Christmas, Agent Carter?”

Peggy realized her mouth was still hanging open, and she shut it with a click, completely thrown by his audacity.  

“You do realize that Christmas is still months away,” she finally managed.  Steve nodded, tilting his head, considering.

“Yeah,” he finally admitted. There was something very warm and honest in his eyes for a moment that made her catch her breath.  Then it dissolved into a teasing twinkle. “But - I hated to disappoint Bucky.”

Peggy arched a sarcastic eyebrow, finally back on familiar ground. “Oh, and heaven forbid we should disappoint _Bucky_.”

Steve grinned a little sheepishly, still flushing.  Something occurred to Peggy, and she bit her lip to keep the smile at bay. “You know, he's probably watching us through his sniper scope.”

That had obviously not occurred to the captain, and the look of horror on his face made her lose the last of her self-possession. Sprawled shoulder to shoulder in the mud and the leaves and the sickly scent of rotting apples, she laughed until Steve joined her, chuckling in spite of the battle raging around them. Then the second explosion went off, and they snapped back to business.

“Right, that's us. You ready?”

Peggy scrambled to her knees. “Always,” she told him, and charged into battle at his back.

* * *

Much later, after the fight was over and they were busy rounding up prisoners, Bucky found them, a smug grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Have a nice Christmas?” he asked, very innocently, and then snickered until Steve good-naturedly swung an arm at his head and Peggy stalked away, steadfastly ignoring them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Viscum Album_ is the ‘traditional’ species of mistletoe - the one most usually pictured. It’s a parasitic plant that grows in Europe and the U.K., often on fruit trees. As near as I could discover, the plant starts blooming in February and the berries ripen in September. 
> 
> Merry Christmas, everybody! I hope yours is a healthier one than mine - I'm sick as a dog and can't sing carols or eat goodies. :( So eat something tasty for me, and have a wonderful day!


	12. Carbon Polymer

**Carbon Polymer**

* * *

“ _ Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me... _ ”  

“Stop it, Bucky.” Steve sounded suitably exasperated.

Bucky grinned, losing the thread of his song.  Ever since that little interlude in the apple orchard a few weeks ago, he had taken a perverse pleasure in singing the hit tune around Steve as often as he could.  He would have done it to Peggy too, but knew he wouldn’t get out of it without at least one extra bullet hole somewhere in his anatomy.

“I’m just singing,” he protested as innocently as possible, carefully turning his head to hide the smile spreading across his face.  Steve had teased Bucky a thousand times about different girls, but this was the first time Bucky’d ever had the opportunity to retaliate, and revenge was sweet.

“Well, do your warbling when we’re not trying to pull off an ambush,” Steve retorted.  “I feel like I’ve got the Andrews sisters in my unit.”

He did have a point.  They were crouched low in the underbrush, waiting for the Hydra patrol that swept these woods.  It probably wasn’t the most appropriate time to sing.  Even so, Bucky continued to lightly tap out the rhythm of the song on his rifle stock.  It made Steve’s ears match the stripes on his shield, which was most entertaining.

Beside, Bucky had the fool song stuck in his head.

Taking down Hydra bases was harder than ever. As base after base went down, Schmidt countered by grouping his men, upping the security and weaponry, and even sweeping the countryside for miles around.

The Howling Commandos, despite the rowdiness of their moniker, were pretty good at sneaking quietly past the border patrols. Captain Rogers could hear them coming long before they were in sight, and the team would be scattered and well hidden by the time the enemy marched through. 

Still, sometimes things went wrong. This time, just as the Hydra patrol came around the bend, Dugan sneezed; loudly, and with unintentional gusto.

At the sound, the leader of the patrol stopped short, swinging around toward the clump of bushes where Dum Dum was hiding. Then, before anybody could do anything, while Bucky was still bringing his own rifle into position and Dernier was clawing for a grenade that wouldn’t kill them all, Steve Rogers made his move.

The captain burst out of hiding, legs pumping, brightly colored shield already curving through the air to knock the gun out of the soldier’s hands a split second before it went off.  The other Hydra agents shouted in surprise, swiveling their guns toward America’s hero, but they were far, far too late.

After all, where Steve Rogers led, the Howling Commandos followed.

The brief skirmish was almost over, when out of the corner of his eye, Bucky saw one of the wounded enemy soldiers tear off his helmet and drag himself up against a tree. Steve didn't see the movement, busy hurling his shield at another man who was trying to get away. 

“Steve!” the wounded soldier screamed, and suddenly Bucky understood with an awful clarity what was about to happen.

Nobody ever called Steve by his first name. It was either ‘Rogers’ or ‘Captain’ or ‘Captain America.’  Even the Commandos called him ‘Cap’ most of the time. 

Only Bucky Barnes and Peggy Carter ever called him by his first name - and this soldier’s voice couldn’t be mistaken as that of a woman.

Bucky stumbled forward, trying to catch the captain’s eye, but he was too late. At the sound of his name, cried out by what sounded like his friend in agony, Steve spun around and stepped away from his cover, open, defenseless, searching for his brother. 

“Buck-” he started, and the enemy soldier grinned and pulled the trigger. 

* * *

“No!”

Bucky didn't realize the roar in his ears was his own voice until long after. He raced forward, blood turning to ice as he saw his best friend go down, blue light from the Hydra weapon searing the air. 

The star-spangled shield ricocheted back towards its owner, but Steve was on the ground, and it soared over his head, ploughing into the dead leaves at Bucky’s feet. 

Okay. He could work with that. 

Bucky didn't think twice, sweeping the shield off the ground and holding it in front of him as he continued his charge, clearing his friend’s body with one bound. The enemy soldier fired three more times, but Bucky deflected each shot, the smell of burnt ozone making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

He barely felt the impact as he slammed into the enemy, bowling the man end over end.  The threat neutralized, Bucky whirled around, shield in hand.

Steve was still down, though he was moving.  That alone was enough to set Bucky’s heart a little more at rest.  A shot from one of those weapons could vaporize a man, if it hit him dead center.  The captain had apparently twisted enough out of the way at the last second that the shot had been a glancing one.

“Steve,” Bucky cried, hurrying over.  A bolt of blue crackled past his ribs, and he flinched, bringing up the shield just in time. It seemed that every Hydra agent, seeing Captain America momentarily incapacitated, had turned their weapon toward the downed man. Dugan bellowed lustily, and a sudden sharp concussion announced that Dernier had their backs. 

Throwing himself on his knees at Steve’s side, Bucky angled the shield, trying to cover as much of the two of them as he could. Steve groaned, rolling onto his side, drawing his knees up. He was grimacing, breathing hard, blue eyes peeling slowly open. 

“Buck?” he gasped. “You okay?  I thought…”

Bucky ducked reflexively as blue fire ricocheted off of the shield. The enemy blasts were growing farther and further between - the Howling Commandos were taking care of them. “I'm fine,” he promised, and took refuge in their old banter to hide his relief. “Better’n you. Look at you; napping in the middle of a fight like a big baby.”

Steve laughed in spite of himself, smile pulling into an expression of pained determination as he accepted the offered hand and slowly dragged himself into a sitting position. Bucky tried to get a look at where the shot had grazed him, but Steve kept his arm close to his side, hiding it. 

At least there wasn't any visible blood - that was something. 

“Let me see,” he ordered, but Steve wouldn't let him. 

“I'm okay,” the captain said, and shook his head a little to clear it. “Just - ah - give me a sec.”

Punk. Bucky looped an arm around Steve’s neck, pulling him until his friend’s forehead rested against his shoulder, giving him a moment to gather himself. For just a minute it was like old times again - the days when Steve had been beaten up badly enough that all he could do was sit and try to catch his breath. Tough as those days had been, there was a sort of nostalgia lingering around the memories now. 

Then another of Dernier’s explosions shook the ground, and Steve raised his head, pulling back. Bucky, watching closely, saw the exact moment the steel returned to his friend’s expression.

You couldn’t pay the guy to stay down, really.  Add a foot or so of height and a hundred-odd pounds of muscle, but beneath it all, Steve was still the stubborn kid from Brooklyn. 

“Let's finish this,” he panted. “We got a base to take out.”

The cheer that went up when the captain reentered the fight was deafening, and it showed exactly how the Howling Commandos got their name. 

Hydra didn't stand a chance. 

* * *

They camped that night over the ridge from the smoldering remains of the Hydra outpost.  Bucky slapped his hands together, blowing into his cupped palms and trying to warm icy fingers with his own breath. Winter wasn't too far out, and on nights like this, you could feel it.

Normally they would try to put a little more distance between themselves and their latest victory in order to avoid possible enemy reinforcements, but not tonight. The men were beat, and even Steve was unusually quiet. 

At the thought, Bucky frowned heavily. He knew his friend was hurt, but Steve hadn't given him a single chance to corner him about it. That fact alone told him that the damage was probably pretty bad - Steve Rogers had always been one to hole himself up and weather a storm on his own. 

What he wouldn't give for Carter to be here. She and Colonel Phillips were miles away, working on some tom-fool publicity thing. Mogs seemed to see eye to eye with him on the care and keeping of Steve Rogers, and between the two of them, they could usually get the stubborn captain to do what they wanted. 

“You turning in anytime soon?” Morita asked idly. He was the one on watch, and the others had long since crawled into their tents. 

“Waiting up for Steve,” Bucky explained, tucking his hands under his arms and trying to imagine they were getting warmer. The captain had cut off as the others set up camp, making one more trip around the destroyed base to ensure everything was as it should be. 

Morita nodded understandingly. He wasn't a big talker, and Bucky was kind of glad about that. The last thing he wanted right now was conversation. 

A shape loomed out of the darkness, and Morita jerked up his gun, only to let it fall when he saw the bright shield. “Sheesh, warn a guy, Cap - I could've shot you.”

“Sorry.”  Steve was moving more slowly than he normally did. Bucky couldn't tell if his face was really that white, or if it was a trick of the moonlight. “No sign of activity - I think we're safe to spend the night here.”

Bucky gave up trying to get his hands warm. “Good,” he said pointedly. “‘Night, Steve.”

“G’night,” the captain answered, crossing to his tent. Bucky watched him closely. Yeah, if Steve were anybody else, he'd be limping outright. Actually - if Steve were anybody else, he'd be dead. 

Nope, not thinking thoughts like that tonight. Bucky dropped to his knees and crawled into the tent after his friend.

“Buck…” Steve sounded resigned, even as he tried to protest. “It’ll heal.  I'm fine, really.”

“In a pig’s eye,” Bucky retorted bluntly, clicking his flashlight on and using it to find Steve’s light, which he turned on as well. The heavy canvas of the tent would keep most of the light in, and they'd only worry about attracting enemy soldiers if they came along. 

Steve’s face was concerningly pale in the warm yellow light from the two flashlights. The tent was only made for one man, so it was rather cramped quarters, and Bucky kept banging his head and elbows against the tent wall. 

“Okay, let me see,” he demanded firmly. “Neither one of us is gonna get any sleep until I have you patched up, so you might as well give in.”  Steve had that obstinate look around his jaw, so Bucky stubbornly jutted out his own chin and added the clincher. 

“I'll tell Peggy on you, when she gets back.”

Steve visibly wavered and then caved. Unhooking his shield from his arm, he leaned it against the tent wall and then turned, slowly heaving himself into a more comfortable position. Bucky reached for his elbow, pulling it away from his body, and got a good look at the site of the hit for the first time. 

“Aw, Stevie.”

The carbon polymer of the suit was singed and melted where the bolt had hit him. There was still no blood visible, but Bucky hated to think what it looked like under the uniform. 

“Let's get this off of you,” he grumbled, feeling for the buckles that fastened the leather harness. “Find out what that thing did to your skin. Seriously, Steve - I can't believe you've been running around on that all day.”

Actually, he could believe it, very well indeed. This was the kid who had strapped up a badly sprained ankle and continued working so he wouldn't get fired from the only job that would hire him, the kid who’d had pneumonia more times than he had fingers, the kid who consistently put himself last. 

They got the uniform top half off before the damage became evident - and then Bucky had to sit back and swallow hard. 

The carbon polymer of the suit had melted straight through the undershirt and into Steve’s skin, fusing together until it was hard to tell how to separate the two.  Angry blisters and burns surrounded the area, and the captain flinched hard when Bucky’s fingers cautiously grazed the edge.

“How do you want to do this?” Bucky asked his friend. 

Steve tried to shrug and then winced, evidently regretting it. “Got to get it off so it can heal.”

Without a word, Bucky got up and crawled out of the tent, coming back a few minutes later with another first aid kit and his helmet full of water.  “Bite on something,” he suggested, and took a deep breath, nerving himself to do what had to be done.  “This isn’t exactly gonna tickle.”

Steve stuffed the sleeve of his uniform in his mouth, and Bucky’s hands shook as he pulled out his knife.

* * *

They were both drenched with sweat by the time Bucky dug the last piece of melted polymer out of Steve’s skin.  The captain had long since doubled over, resting his forehead on his knees, fists clenching convulsively.

Several times they’d had to stop and take a break, allowing Steve a minute to take long breaths and try to stop gagging from the pain.  Bucky also needed the time to shake the trembles out of his hands.  This was bringing back bad memories of his time being experimented on by Zola after Azzano, and he couldn’t help but feel like scum, hurting his friend like this.

“That’s the last one,” he said now, carefully prodding the ugly mess that used to be Steve’s skin, trying to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.  “You doin’ okay?”

Steve raised his head a little, spitting out the mangled sleeve of his uniform.  “Peachy,” he choked.  He’d always been a rotten liar.  Shudders raced over his back, muscles twitching uncontrollably.

“I wish Carter were here,” Bucky continued, trying to get Steve’s mind off the pain as he proceeded to wash out the wound.  “If a guy’s gonna get himself charbroiled, the least he deserves is a pretty dame to nurse him through it.”

His distraction must have worked - Steve flushed heavily, the red crawling all the way up his neck and into his ears.  “I’m glad she’s not,” he finally admitted, breath catching as Bucky’s cloth caught a particularly tender spot.  “Wouldn’t want her to see me like this.”

Bucky rinsed the bloody cloth out again.  “When are you going to give in and ask her to marry you?”

He'd halfway meant it as a joke, an idle conversation starter, but Steve didn’t answer for a long time.

“We got a date to go dancing when the war’s over,” he finally said, much later, when Bucky had almost forgotten his question.  There was a quiet, almost tremulous hope in his voice.  “I - I thought maybe after that…”  He trailed off and then chuckled ruefully. “Assuming I don’t break all her toes by stepping on them first.”

“Maybe ask her before you go dancing,” Bucky suggested.  He was touched that his friend would confide in him, but wasn’t sure how to show it, so he took refuge in teasing.  “If she sees you dance first, she might get scared off.” 

Steve shrugged a little, neck still red. “She's something else, Buck. I - she's way too good for me, but I figure I might as well try my luck.”

“Well, they're saying the war might end by Christmas.”  Bucky unwound a length of bandages from the kit, pleased that his hands weren’t shaking anymore, even though they were cold and numb from the water.

Steve hesitated, and then shook his head.  “Not Christmas,” he decided, and his voice was steadier, not quite as hoarse as it had been earlier.  “I’m betting it won’t be long after that, though.  We’re closing down on Hydra, and the Nazis don’t have enough supplies to keep going indefinitely.”

Bucky laid the end of the roll of bandages against Steve’s side and started winding it around and around, trying to pull it just tightly enough.  Sometimes it was hard for him to look forward to the future.  Every day, every minute, every bullet could be the last, could mark the premature end of the war for any man.  They hadn’t lost any of the Commandos yet, but their luck was bound to run out sooner or later.

“Hey, Steve - you think we’ll make it?”

He wished he hadn’t said it as soon as the words left his mouth, but it was too late, and his question hung heavy in the air.  Then Steve shifted, turning his head toward his friend.  His face was still creased with pain and weariness, but his eyes were bright.  “Yeah,” he said, and he was smiling a little.  “I really do - I think both of us are gonna make it through.”

Bucky tucked the end of the bandage in firmly, and shoved the pile of red, white and blue into a corner.  That uniform was a dead loss.  “You’re an incurable optimist, Rogers,” he grumbled, but somehow his friend’s words were comforting.

It was too dark and cold outside for Bucky to want to head back to his own tent, so he bedded down with Steve, just like all those times when they were kids. Bucky pulled up the blanket and both their coats, and then hunkered down, Steve’s back against his.

Outside the wind was picking up, and the canvas shuddered over their heads.  He hoped they weren’t in for a storm.  Humming sleepily, Bucky pulled the blanket up to his nose.

After a moment, Steve shifted.  Golly, his elbow was sharp.  Some things never changed.  “Buck?”

Bucky stopped humming.  “Yeah?”

“You keep singing that song, I’m gonna kick you out.”

Bucky grinned broadly into the darkness.

* * *

The next morning when Bucky blinked awake Steve was already up and shaving, hunched over so he could look into the mirror hanging from the tent pole.  There was color in his face, and the lines of pain were gone – but the best thing of all was the tune he was whistling unconsciously between his teeth.

_ “…with anyone else but me, ‘till I come marching home.” _

Bucky didn’t stop laughing for ten minutes.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Bucky keeps singing is “Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree” by Lew Brown and Charles Tobias. The Andrews Sisters rendition was particularly famous during WWII.


	13. Silent Night

**Silent Night**

* * *

That winter was the coldest on record in years.

Naturally then, Captain America and the Howling Commandos had to be out in the middle of it.

Somewhere to the east of their position, the Germans had begun an unexpected push. Allied forces were fighting back bravely, but they were mostly brand-new recruits from the States, or older, battle-weary troops stationed there for a rest. From all over Europe, reinforcements were rushing desperately to their aid, and the Howling Commandos led the way.

“I am freezing,” Peggy announced, wrapping her arms around herself and stalking through the snow toward the group of men. “Scoot over.”  Dugan had managed to get a fire going in the shelter of a rock, and the Commandos were crowded around it, shoulder to shoulder to keep the wind away.

Steve looked up at her approach, but Bucky reacted faster than the captain could, crowding into Morita to make a space between himself and Steve.  After Peggy settled herself in the gap, Bucky snapped back into his former position like a rubber band, shoving her irresistibly into Steve’s side.  She grunted in surprise, and the captain shot a suspicious look at his old friend, but Bucky’s face was carefully innocent.

“Um, sorry.  You have enough room?” Steve asked Peggy, trying to discretely scoot over so she could have a little more space.  Next to him, Dugan planted his weight and braced both feet against one of Falsworth’s boots, refusing to be pushed.  Apparently the entire team was bent on getting Steve and Peggy in close proximity to each other.  

Peggy sounded a little breathless, but otherwise unoffended.  “I’m fine.  Good heavens, Steve - you’re warm.”

Well, as long as she didn’t mind, Steve supposed it was all right.  His elbow was digging rather awkwardly into her ribs, so he shifted just enough to stretch his arm out behind her.  Bucky gave a very satisfied smile to the small fire, and even Dugan’s moustache looked pleased.

Steve shook his head ruefully.  His men were a bunch of lousy romantics, the lot of them.

With Peggy settled, the conversation in the little circle picked back up again.  Christmas was coming, but by then they would be helping the stranded forces, wading knee-deep in blood and snow.  That didn’t mean the men weren’t thinking about it though.

“...Advent wreath,” Falsworth was saying.  “We’d let my little sister light the candles, and then read the Bible verse and sing carols.”

“Lots of good food,” Morita added, nodding wistfully.  “Though we probably didn’t eat the same stuff the rest of you did.  Noodles and _mochi_ and _gyosa_ …”  He trailed off, probably trying to figure out how to describe his family’s traditional food to his friends.

Bucky chimed in.  “Dad would bring a tree home, and my ma would get out her special decorations that she got as a wedding present.  We handled those things like they were spun glass.”

Steve snorted rather inelegantly. “They _were_ glass, Buck.”

Everyone was cold and tired and a trifle homesick, even if they wouldn’t admit it, so the captain’s comment came across as funnier than it really was.  Under the immoderate roar of merriment that went up at his words, Steve could feel Peggy’s own laughter vibrate against his ribs.  She was so close to him, and when he looked down at her, the glow of her smiling face and the flickers of firelight trapped in her curls made his heart leap giddily inside his chest.

Yeah, he was a lost cause.  Peggy Carter meant more to him than he had words to say. Some days the only thing that kept him going was the liquid twinkle of her dark eyes, the soft pressure of her hand around his, and the dream of that dance she’d promised him.

Peggy’s eyes darted up and trapped his for a moment. Caught, he stared back guiltily, enchanted.

“Caroling,” she said suddenly, looking back down at the fire, voice carefully steady. “We used to go caroling when I was small. Michael sang alto until his voice changed.”

She never spoke much of her brother, and they all felt distinctly honored that she would share that memory with them. For a moment none of them spoke, staring at the leaping flames and thinking of loved ones who were far away.

To everybody’s surprise, it was Gabe Jones who started singing first.

_“God rest you merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay…”_

He had a clear tenor voice that no one had ever heard before. Dugan blinked in shock and a slow, delighted smile spread across Dernier’s face. Then Falsworth joined in halfway through the first verse, and by the end of the chorus, they were all singing.

The carol ended, and after two breaths they immediately launched on another one. It was something familiar, something from before the war, and none of them wanted to stop. They sang everything that everybody knew and then some, making up the words if they forgot the originals. Dugan overpowered them all in a rousing rendition of “Jingle Bells,” Dernier led them in a French carol that nobody else had ever heard of, and Peggy and Falsworth sang an old English tune.

Feeling suddenly reckless, Steve caught his friend’s eye over Peggy’s dark head during a pause between two carols.  “How about it, Buck?”

Bucky half frowned, confused, and then his eyebrows went up.  “It’s too high for us now.”

“We can pitch it lower,” Steve grinned back, and launched headlong into a Christmas duet that his mother had taught them as children. Bucky followed him a moment later, determined not to be shown up.

That last threw them all into hilarity because Steve’s voice broke on a high note and Bucky, who had been earnestly harmonizing until then, cracked up laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. His joy was contagious, and even Phillips chuckled from where he was stubbornly toughing out the cold a few yards away.

At the end they all sang “Silent Night” - that old, sweet carol that had touched the lives of more people than the war ever would. Steve sank into the rumbling familiarity of the bass line and Bucky’s forehead creased as he fumbled for the tenor, while Peggy’s smooth alto melted through it all.

As they sang, Steve let his eyes drift around their little circle, lingering on each face, thoughtful in the firelight. Dernier sang the melody with his eyes closed, Jones watched the stars, and Dugan was ever so slightly off-key. Even Colonel Phillips growled along, and the ever-stoic Falsworth swiped discreetly at his eyes, staring into the flames.

In a rare move of openness and trust, Peggy settled her head against Steve’s shoulder halfway through the second verse and he promptly forgot the next few notes of the song. It was then he discovered that at some point, without his conscious volition, his arm had found its way around her waist.

Very carefully, he drew her a just little nearer, humbled by the strong agent’s faith in him. Glancing up, he caught the quiet look of proud approval in Bucky’s eyes, and felt the corner of his mouth curl up in response.

For some reason, Steve suddenly had the distinct feeling that this moment was one that he would remember for as long as he lived - this brief snapshot of friendship and camaraderie. Shoulder to shoulder, their tiny band held the cold world at bay, the final notes of their song floating out through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because if Steve sang in a barbershop quartet as a grown man, who’s to say he and Bucky didn’t sing stuff together as kids?
> 
> Okay, so maybe that's just me. :)


	14. Casualty of War

**Casualty of War**

* * *

It didn't even hurt, at first.

Just two sharp smacks to the back of her shoulder, and an odd popping feeling - and then Peggy Carter’s feet tangled together and the snowy field she was racing across rose up to hit her in the face. Confused, she tried to get up - and that was when the pain hit. 

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't even think. The horrible feeling of something being  _ wrong  _ with her body pressed unbearably close to her skin, and Peggy choked on the rising panic. 

She had to get up, needed to get up. Her gun had flown out of her hands at the impact, and her helmet was lost somewhere in the snow.  _ “You're a sitting duck, Carter,” _ Colonel Phillip’s voice grated in her head - but the building agony in her shoulder blazed hotter at every move she tried to make. 

_ “Please, God,” _ she thought hazily, but wasn't at all sure what she was asking for. 

Somebody shouted in alarm, but the sound was oddly distant.  

* * *

For the rest of his life, Steve Rogers would never forget the sheer bloodcurdling horror that shot through his soul when he glanced back over his shoulder and saw Peggy Carter sprawled facedown in the snow.

Bright red splashed the trampled drifts around her. 

She wasn't moving. 

The roar of overhead artillery and the crack of gunshots blurred together into the background, the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears as Steve skidded into a complete about-face at full speed, snow spraying around him as he threw himself back the way he had come. 

“Keep going; get to the trees!” he shouted to the startled Commandos as he bolted past them, legs churning through the snow as he ran toward the downed woman. If she - no, he wouldn't think it. 

Peggy wasn't even supposed to be here with them. She should have been with Phillips back behind the lines. But word was that somebody needed a codebreaker, so she’d put on a helmet and found a gun and fallen into step with the Commandos, intent on sticking with them until they swung by the battalion in question. 

Steve had let her, figuring she’d be as safe with them as anywhere. Now he wished he hadn't. 

Reaching her, he dropped to his knees over her body, covering her from enemy fire as bullets sparked off the shield on his back. “No, no, no, no, no,” he begged under his breath, taking in the blood that covered her coat, hands hovering helplessly for just a heartbeat. Then Peggy’s fingers twitched, and relief broke over his head like a warm wave. 

She was still alive.

The need for haste made him less gentle than he would have liked as he hauled her roughly into his arms. Peggy cried out faintly, an agonizing sound that left him feeling as if he’d been shot himself. Her head rolled heavily against his shoulder, and he gathered her more closely, a deep surge of tender protectiveness in his touch.  

“It's okay, Peggy. I got you.”

The friendly snap of Bucky’s rifle echoed over his head, picking off each enemy as Steve resumed his race toward the trees, arms filled with his fragile burden. 

* * *

They found shelter in a snowy foxhole just inside the treeline that somebody else had dug. Hands fumbling, Steve pulled at her coat, yanking it over her shoulder and down. Peggy gasped into his collar, clutching at the fabric of his uniform as the pain dragged her back to awareness.

“Sorry,” he apologized for what he was about to do. Peggy was wearing too many layers under her coat against the cold. There was no time to get them off properly, and besides, undressing her in the bitter weather would be as dangerous as it was ungentlemanly. Getting a good grip on her collar, he pulled, layers of wool giving way under his fingers like tissue paper as he laid her shoulder bare. She groaned again, but this time sounded more exasperated than anything else. Peggy hated mending. 

She’d been shot twice, he realized. One didn't look too bad, but the other was bleeding heavily, immediately drenching his hand in red as he clamped down hard, applying pressure. With his free arm he pulled her close, holding her upright against his chest and trying to warm her by sharing his own body heat. Shock could kill a man quickly in this weather, and she was shaking like a leaf against him.

Bucky and Morita found them then, dropping practically on top of them as they crowded into the cramped foxhole. Bucky stayed up on his knees, gun ready, keeping a sharp eye on the landscape even as he shot a worried glance at the wounded agent. Morita crouched at her side, pulling out his first aid kit. Something exploded overhead, but nothing fell near them.

“Two shots, no exit wounds,” Steve’s voice was terse. The bullets would have to be dug out. Morita was already moving, pulling the captain’s bloody hand away so he could get a better look. 

“Get her to take this,” he ordered, dropping a wound pill into Steve’s palm. The captain pressed the pill against her mouth until Peggy’s eyes fluttered open and she obediently swallowed it, grimacing at the iron taste of her own blood on his gloved fingers. 

“I'm - mm - I'm fine.”  Her voice was more wobbly than she probably would have liked. “I can keep going.”

Morita shook his head from where he was crouched, working over her shoulder.  “She nicked something,” he confessed grimly. “I can stabilize her for now, but she's losing a lot of blood.  We need to get her to an aid station.”

Steve took a deep breath, mind racing. “Okay, here's what we'll do. You fellows dig in, stay here. I'll run her back.”

“No,” Peggy interrupted. “That's not an option.  I - can keep up.”  She tried to pull away, setting her teeth as something grated inside her shoulder - whether bone or bullets, she wasn't sure. Steve tightened his arms, easily drawing her back against him, and his eyes were very concerned as he looked down into her face. 

“I know you can,” he assured her. “I've seen you do harder things with less food and sleep than anyone, but this is different. Hypothermia and blood loss will kill you, Peg, same as any man here.”

Failure was a bitter dose to take. Peggy closed her eyes resignedly, panting through the pain. “All right. Radio my - mm - my position in, and then go.”

Every inch of his soul rebelled at the thought. “I'm not leaving you here to die, Peg.”

She laughed through white lips, and then whimpered as Morita started bandaging her shoulder tightly. “Don't be so dramatic, Captain. I -  _ ah _ \- I've no intention of dying.”

“I'll stay with her until the litter team comes,” Bucky volunteered. Steve looked up at his friend, gratefully snatching at any straw, but Peggy was relentless. 

“You know you can't spare anybody,” she breathed, voice faint enough that he could only just hear it, but there was steel in her eyes. “I promise - I'll be fine, but there's a thousand men depending on you. You - mm - you mustn't be late.”

She was right, and he hated it. Every second of delay meant additional lives lost, and he couldn't spare a single Commando. That didn't mean he had to like it. “Peggy…” 

“Go,” she whispered fiercely, looking up at him with absolute surety. Steve had never wanted to kiss her quite so badly as he did at that moment. He wondered if she would mind very much, and if kissing her would bring any color back into her pale face. 

“Cap?  What’s the call?”

Steve tore his eyes away from hers and looked up at Morita, who was pulling Peggy’s coat back up over her bandaged shoulder. Dugan must have arrived at some point, crouching at Bucky’s feet.  They were all watching him, willing and ready to follow his lead, no matter what he chose. 

“Do as Peggy says,” he ordered at last, and the pleased gratification in her eyes was almost enough to sweep away the guilt he felt about leaving her.

* * *

Things moved quickly after that.  Morita radioed in, sending Carter’s location to the nearest aid station.  They would send somebody as quickly as they could, but the battle still raged hot and heavy, and litter bearers were low.  There was no telling how long she would have to wait.

Between them, Dugan and Steve helped move Peggy into the most sheltered corner of the foxhole, leaning up against the side.  She grunted painfully but didn’t cry out, eyes screwed shut, grip demandingly tight around the captain’s hand until she was settled.

“Here.”  Steve jerked out his sidearm and pressed it into Peggy’s hand, wrapping her fingers around it.  “Shoot anybody who isn’t one of ours.”  Dugan emptied half his stock of ammunition at her side, eyes sober even as he cracked a grin. 

Over their heads, Bucky pulled his trigger, the spent bullet casing flying sideways.  “Perimeter’s clear,” he announced, and Steve nodded grimly.

“Right.  Move out.”  

Each man paused to briefly take leave of their wounded comrade before exiting the meager shelter.  Bucky was the last, and she beckoned him a little closer.

“Take care of him,” she whispered, but the captain’s ears were sharp enough to catch her words and Bucky’s low reply, “You know I will.”

Touched, Steve bowed his head, and when he raised it again, they were alone.  Peggy looked drained, surprisingly small as she leaned back against the snow.  Her drying blood stained her coat, and the same color was streaked across the leather of his gloves.

“Godspeed, Captain,” she told him, and he nodded mutely, not sure what to say.  This could be the last time he saw those bright eyes.  She had lost so much blood, the temperatures were plummeting, and he was leaving her behind, wounded and alone in hotly contested territory with nothing but a handgun for protection.  

“Don’t fall asleep,” he ordered, more abruptly than he'd meant.  There were so many other things he wanted to say, but they stuck in his throat.  Peggy quirked an eyebrow, smiling faintly as she reminded him of their old joke. 

“Can’t give me orders, Steve.”

Her teeth were chattering, he noticed, and a sudden impulse dragged him forward.  Shucking off his helmet, he pulled it firmly down over her dark hair, buckling it under her chin - and if he leaned in closer than necessary, or brushed his lips clumsily against her cheek in the process, well, that was nobody’s business but their own.

Her eyes were wide through the eyeholes of his helmet when he drew back, and there was the faintest trace of new color in her face.  Steve hoped the headgear would keep her at least a little warmer, and it made him feel better, leaving something of himself behind to keep her safe.  

“I’ll find you afterward,” he promised solemnly.

He didn’t look back as he followed his team into the forest.  The lives of a thousand men weighed on his shoulders, but none more heavily than that of the woman he had left behind.

* * *

It was a solid week and a half before he found her again.

On paper, war looks very orderly.  Armies march along arrowed lines, contesting clearly delineated bits of ground, rendezvousing at labeled points on a map.

The reality was very different.  Armed men struggled to stay in contact with each other, communication lines went down, and cars and equipment froze.  Medical aid stations and the larger clearing stations and evacuation hospitals had to constantly change location, treading a delicate line between being far enough from the action to be safe while remaining close enough to help.

Of course Steve had gone back to the foxhole as soon as he could, detouring three miles to get to it, heart clenching painfully in his chest at the fear that he might find her dead body.  He didn’t; the hole was inhabited by a handful of soldiers from another division, all of whom went wide-eyed and stammering at the sight of Captain America. None of them knew anything about any Agent Carter, or where she might be.

“I think the aid station was that way,” one of them finally said, waving a hand vaguely, but when the Commandos got there, it had been overrun with Nazis.  Two Allied medics were left, taking care of the wounded too badly hurt to transport, but the rest had got away.

“There might have been a dame?”  One of the medics scratched his head, frowning.  His New Jersey accent was like a breath of fresh air.  “To be honest, I couldn’t tell you.  You’d think I’d remember, but it’s all been a blur lately.”

Steve desperately needed to find her - he’d made a promise, after all - but the German prisoners he had taken at the aid station needed to be escorted, and then there was another raid to lead, and a line to break, and a fight to win. The work seemed endless, and still he could not find her. 

* * *

In the end, he found her completely by accident.  

“Agent Carter?” he called incredulously, starting up, hope swelling wildly in his heart. 

Bucky promptly put a hand on each shoulder and tried to shove him down again.  “For Pete’s sake, Steve, hold still,” he grouched, even as he turned to follow his friend’s gaze. Steve slipped his hold, limping heavily forward.  Peggy was weaving between medics and soldiers as she hurried over, eyes glad, step crisp and businesslike as ever, although somewhat slower than usual. 

“Captain,” she greeted him composedly, as if they’d seen each other every day.  Steve wanted to scoop her up and spin her around, but the memory of her pained cry last time he had held her made him hold back, wary of hurting her shoulder.  She was smiling, looking up at him in that way that made him feel a foot taller and three times as clumsy.  

“Peggy,” he managed, which wasn’t terribly eloquent as far as greetings went.  He realized he was grinning widely, incredibly relieved that she was alive and safe.  

She swept him up and down with a comprehensive look, and then frowned, looking over his shoulder to throw a narrowed glare at Bucky.  “I thought I told you to look after him, Barnes.”

Bucky shrugged.  “Fool kid decided to go jump in front of an exploding tank.  Not much I could do about it.”  He sounded resigned enough about it now, but that was probably because he had run out of cuss words back when he’d first seen the gleam of shrapnel sticking out of Steve’s leg.  It was a good thing his mother couldn’t have heard him - she’d have been scrubbing his mouth out with soap in no time at all.

Peggy redirected her glare to the captain and he shrugged unapologetically, too giddy with relief that she was alive and well to feel sheepish.  There had been a young soldier - just a kid, really - frozen with terror.  He would have been killed if Steve hadn’t run out after him.  Besides, apparently getting injured had helped him find Peggy, so it wasn’t a complete loss.

“How’s the shoulder?” he asked, gesturing toward her loose sleeve and the telltale bulge that betrayed the sling under her coat.  Bucky grabbed him by the collar, manhandling him backwards toward the cot and the waiting medic.  Sweeping the frost off a nearby box, Peggy sat down next to him, slipping her good hand over his arm quite naturally as the medic began his work.

“It’s getting better,” she told him lightly, although he noticed she wasn’t meeting his gaze.  “They won’t let me out to help fight, so I’ve been doing whatever I can.  I’ll likely be sent back to England after this - nobody wants a wounded woman at the front.”

Steve felt his face tighten in sympathy.  He knew very well how it felt to be considered physically inadequate for a job, and he understood what a blow this was for her.  Resolutely he ignored the little rush of relief her words brought.  Peggy was thinner than she had been last time he’d seen her.  Still pale too, and she didn’t quite have the bounce and energy in her movements that she usually did.  No matter how well she was hiding that shoulder wound, she still had a lot of recovery left to do.

Something exploded a few yards away, sending dirt and snow spraying into the air.  The medic who was working over his leg ducked wildly, and Peggy threw up her good arm to shield herself from the shower of dirt.  Bucky barely flinched - he was too tired and had been around too many explosions the last few days to react much.  They all paused, waiting breathlessly to see if it had been a stray shot or if they were under attack.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Steve finally told her as everybody slowly relaxed.  “I was - um…”

“He was worried sick,” Bucky interjected, cheerfully ignoring the dirty look Steve shot at him.  “Been looking for you all over the place.  Took down the blockade in record time just so he could get back to you faster.”

Peggy bit back a pleased smile and busied herself dusting the loose dirt from where it had fallen on Steve’s uniform.  “I can take care of myself,” she informed him sternly, but there was warmth in her voice, and he knew she wasn’t mad.  Closing his eyes, he focused on the touch of her hand rather than the pain as the medic extracted the last few pieces of metal.  

* * *

Their little respite didn’t last long.  Another push needed to be made, thousands of lives were on the line, and Captain America was the one man who could rally the discouraged, cold, flagging men.  

“And you're sure your leg is all right?”  Peggy made no effort to hide her disapproval, leaning against the doorway of the little building that sheltered the makeshift hospital. The door was long since gone. 

Steve nodded, checking his ammunition and supplies one last time. “It's fine, Peggy - I promise.”  

It wasn't completely healed, but he could run on it, and that was what mattered. Behind him, Bucky threw his hands up in a show of mute exasperation. He and Peggy both knew that the captain would run himself into the ground without a word of complaint. 

More than anything, Peggy wanted to go with them, wanted to collect her gear and fall into step at her captain’s side. Her wounds weren't healing nearly as fast as his leg though, and she couldn't hold or shoot a gun with any degree of accuracy. The constant cold left her body exhausted with shivering, and her shoulder ached incessantly. 

“I have something for you, Captain,” she told him. His eyes warmed as she pulled his helmet from behind her back. Peggy had repaired the frayed strap and cleaned the mud from the creases until it was almost as good as new. Now she fumbled with it one-handed until he helped her pull it down over his head. Adjusting the chinstrap over the strong line of his jaw, Peggy considered him playfully, head tipped to one side. 

“You'll do,” she decided at last. Her blood tingled as she met his eyes; he was looking at her like he had on that long-ago night in the pub - as though she was the most beautiful girl in the world. She wasn't at all sure how to handle that. 

“Thanks,” he said softly, and she wondered if he was thanking her for the helmet or something else. 

“Yes, well - you still owe me a blouse,” she retorted, taking refuge in inconsequential banter. “Next time you decide to tear my shirt, at least rip it along the seams, will you?  It'll be easier to mend.”

A sputter came from behind her, and Peggy whirled around to see Colonel Phillips regarding her with a very odd expression around his mouth. 

“Sir.”  Mortified, she came to attention, and he waved a dismissive hand. 

“I really don't want to know,” he decided, coming past her into the room. Steve’s face was burning, and Bucky leaned helplessly against the wall, chortling gleefully. 

“You boys ready to head out?” Phillips demanded, and then both men were swinging their packs onto their backs and it was time to say goodbye again. 

“Good luck,” she told them all. Phillips nodded with a brusque “Stay safe, Carter,” and Bucky passed her with a jaunty salute, still snickering. It was Steve’s brief handclasp, though, and his quiet farewell that left her heart warm and glowing until long after they were all out of sight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set in the Ardennes. It's one of my personal headcanons that Steve was there during WWII, and I like to think that’s what Peggy was referring to in her interview in Winter Soldier. 
> 
> Temperatures were extremely low in the Ardennes during the winter of 1944-45. Most soldiers simply describe it as "very cold," but various sources give readings from 15° F to 0° F (-9° C to -17° C). If you want to know more about medics and their work under such conditions, [this](http://www.battleofthebulgememories.be/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=57:medics-in-the-bulge&catid=1:battle-of-the-bulge-us-army&Itemid=6&lang=en) is a good, although heartbreaking, site.


	15. Companionable Typists

**Companionable Typists**

* * *

It was late in the evening and the London streets were dark and wet.  The rest of the Commandos had been put up for the night upon arrival, but the captain had been called in for debriefing - and of course, Bucky went along.

“Can’t let you out on your own,” he had explained when Steve tried to get him to stay back with the others, get some rest.  “You’d probably end up falling asleep on your feet and walking into the river or something.”

Steve shook his head with a rueful grin but didn’t try to talk him out of it.  From Bucky’s point of view, that was practically an admission that he was right.  There were deep circles under the captain’s eyes; the constant missions were taking a toll on him, super soldier or no. 

They couldn’t show up in their filthy battle gear, so both men took a moment to shave and get into uniform.  Bucky finished before Steve did, and took a moment to scrounge up some edibles.  They’d been running on K-rations for weeks, and he didn’t like how peaked his friend had been looking lately.

“Here,” he said, coming up behind Steve who was tying his tie in the mirror, and shoving a piece of bread into his mouth.  Caught completely unawares, Steve choked, and shot a dirty look at him.   Still, he seemed a little more alert, and Bucky counted that as a win.

“What, you trying to stuff me like a turkey?” Steve demanded when he could speak again, and Bucky chuckled, dropping a few extra things into his friend’s pocket for later.

“Naw, just trying to make sure you look enough like yourself that Carter’ll recognize you when you get in there.”

Steve immediately occupied himself with his tie again, trying very hard to look completely clueless.  Really - as if it wasn’t obvious.  He never spent this much time gussying himself up unless there was a chance at seeing Agent Carter.

It was cute, actually, in a kind of awkward way.  Bucky had always sort of figured that if Steve ever fell in love, he’d do it as wholeheartedly as he did everything else, but actually getting to see it happen was pretty incredible.  He wasn't surprised that his friend would fall for a dame like Agent Carter - but never, in a million years, would he have dreamed that a girl like her would fall for Steve right back.  

It was nice to know he wasn’t the only person in the world who recognized Steve’s worth.  Everybody else saw him first as a skinny, no-account shrimp, and then as some kind of glorified army mascot.  The guy needed people around him who saw him as the good man he really was, and always had been.

“If you’re done primping,” he drawled, and then ducked gleefully, scuttling out the door as Steve skidded after him, wielding a damp washcloth threateningly.

* * *

Peggy Carter finished typing up the third page of her shorthand notes, took the paper out of the typewriter, and then looked up and promptly dropped it.  She hadn’t seen Steve since that bitterly cold day in the woods on the Western Front, yet here he was, in the London base, settling behind Margery’s desk with a ridiculously tall stack of paperwork.

“Captain,” she said, surprised, and he looked up with a smile.  He was wearing his uniform, but the freshly damp hair and deep circles under his eyes told her that he must have just arrived from Europe.

“Hey,” he answered, grinning.  “Anybody using this desk?”

“Margery’s gone home for the night, so no.”  Peggy couldn’t take her eyes off of him, scanning him for any injury.  If he was hurt, she couldn’t tell.  “Did you just get in?”

He nodded, weariness tugging at the slope of his shoulders.  “Yeah.  Got held up, or I’d have been here sooner.  They’re debriefing Bucky now - he stuck me with the paperwork.”  

“I’m glad you’re here,” Peggy confessed, loading a fresh piece of paper into the typewriter.  “It’s always nicer to do work with somebody else around.”

For a long time neither one spoke, each working away on their own particular projects.  Peggy was far behind - typing one-handed was a slow and exacting process that tried her patience and made her all prickly.  Still, her present company made it far more enjoyable. 

Steve swore suddenly under his breath, jerking the paper out of his machine.  He hadn’t adjusted the rollers properly, and the sheet had jammed and torn when he tried to load it.  Then he threw her an apologetic look.  “Sorry.”

“Oh, please.”  Peggy threw him a laughing glance.  “As if I hadn’t heard you swear before.”

“Well, not at a typewriter anyway,” Steve clarified.  “I’m not much good with these.  I took a course once, but it’s been a while - and I’ve mostly come across portables since.”

She got up from her desk and came around, bending a trifle closer than necessary over his shoulder as she showed him the specifics of that particular machine and slipped in a fresh piece of paper.  “There.  This is an Imperial - you’ve probably not used one before.  Hopefully that’ll work better.”

His eyes followed her as she went back to her seat; she could feel his gaze straight through the back of her head, and hid a smile as she sat back down.

“You’re still wearing a sling,” he commented after a moment.  The implied question was plain.  Peggy pursed her lips and hit the return lever on her typewriter a little harder than necessary.

“I’ve been reliably informed that if I take it off again, I’ll be demoted to stenographer,” she finally explained.  Truth be told, she was a rotten patient.  After she had popped her stitches for the third time, Colonel Phillips’ words had been something along the lines of,  _ “So help me, Carter, if you take that thing off again before it’s healed, I’ll land you behind a desk for the rest of the war.” _

Steve nodded understandingly.  He of all people could sympathize with physical limitations, having dealt with so many himself before Project Rebirth.

They worked silently for a few more minutes, the only sound that of the clicking keys and the rustle of paper.  Peggy found herself watching Steve type - it was a skill he had learned before his physical transformation, and characteristics reemerged that she hadn’t seen since training camp.  He sat a little too close to the machine, and his shoulders were rounded, forehead furrowing with concentration.  She noticed he touched the keys carefully, and only bent the carriage return lever once from hitting it too hard, re-learning how to use the machine with his stronger body.

He glanced up then, catching her eyes on him, and she looked away quickly, trying to pretend she hadn’t just been staring.  It was juvenile and silly, she knew, but they’d had so few quiet times together like this, and she wanted to remember it.

“Want some?” she heard him ask, and the crinkle of a candy wrapper accompanied his words.  He was grinning a little shyly, holding a candy bar out, the type soldiers got in their rations.  She broke off a piece with a smile of thanks and handed the rest back, fingers brushing his briefly.

“Do you always carry chocolate around when you’re doing office work?” she inquired, biting a corner off and letting it melt on her tongue.  He shook his head, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs out, almost knocking the desk over in the process.

“No. Buck shoved it in my pocket before coming here. Easier to stay awake when you’re eating something.”

He did look tired - downright exhausted, and Peggy would have bet good money that he hadn’t slept in quite some time.  When he was on the front lines or actively fighting, the man could go seemingly for days without sleep, but afterwards, when things had died down, he always crashed heavily.  This looked like the tail end of one of those cycles, and she was impressed he was still sitting upright.

“I do hope you don’t have to go on another mission for a while.”  She bit off another piece of chocolate and spoke around it unashamedly.  “You look like you could sleep for a week.”

Steve laughed ruefully, and his face brightened, banishing the tired lines for a moment.  “I could, but I doubt there’s enough time.  I get the feeling they’ve got something else planned for me as soon as all this is done.”

“I believe they do.”  Peggy nibbled carefully at the edges of the candy, trying to make it last. “They want you to do another publicity circuit.”

The captain paused, waiting for her to tell him that it was a joke.  When no such comment was forthcoming, he groaned and slumped.  “Peggy, no.  I hate those things.”

Peggy laughed a little at his dismay - she couldn’t help it.  Then a drop of melting chocolate dripped from her hand into her lap, and it was Steve’s turn to chuckle warmly as she yelped, wiping at the brown spots on her skirt.

“Here.”  He rummaged in his pocket, hunting for a handkerchief even as he grinned at her predicament.  Obviously, the man was enjoying the sight of Peggy making a mess of herself as she tried to eat like a normal human being.  “I’m serious, though.  I should be out there fighting, not prancing around on the stage again.”

She gave up trying to preserve her dignity, licking the melting chocolate off of her fingers and accepting the handkerchief that he held out to her.  “It isn’t for very long - just a few appearances around London while they set up your next mission.  Some of the American papers want to interview you again, too.”

The captain groaned, rubbing his hands down his face before finally nodding.  They both knew it would do no good to argue about it.  Captain America was practically the face of the war effort in his home country, and while the cartoon artists perpetuated his image as much as possible and stock footage from his USO tour was reused over and over, sometimes they needed fresh material to work with.

For another moment, they sat in companionable silence while Peggy finished cleaning herself off.  She could feel his eyes on her, but when she looked up he blinked and turned his attention to his typewriter, scowling at it with the determined expression she had seen on his face just before taking down a Nazi bunker on his own.  

“Okay,” he said at last, scooting his chair back in with decision.  “Got to get this done before morning, right?”

Peggy sighed, bending over her task as well.  For several minutes, the only sound in the room was the clack of the typewriter keys as they both worked busily away.  Steve’s typing became slower and slower, and eventually Peggy peeked up at him through her eyelashes.  He was obviously struggling to stay awake, eyelids fluttering heavily.  Poor man; he looked so tired.

“Would you like something to drink?” 

Steve blinked, confused. “What?”

“I’m getting something hot to drink,” Peggy reiterated, scooting her chair back and standing.  “You’re falling asleep sitting up.  Would you like some?”

He did, she could see it in his eyes, but he shook his head.  “I can get it myself.”

“Steve.”  Her voice commanded attention, and he looked up at her, surprised.  She softened at once, under his questioning blue eyes.  “Say ‘thank you.’  I  _ am _ getting you something to drink.”

His eyes went wide.  “Thanks?” he repeated, almost cautiously.  Peggy nodded graciously, stepping toward the door. 

“You’re very welcome, Captain.”

* * *

Bucky Barnes loosened his tie with a sigh of relief as he left the office.  Golly, those mission reports got worse every time.  Clattering down the stairs, he turned toward the communications room.  Hopefully Steve was there, and if Bucky had played his cards right, Agent Carter would be there as well.  The stenographer at the front had said Peggy would probably stay late, so Bucky had finagled Steve into swapping jobs - he would take the debriefing and Steve the report.

The punk hadn’t suspected a thing - or if he did, he hadn’t let on.

Carter was there after all.  She looked up from her work at his entrance, holding up a finger in a gesture for silence.  Bucky paused in the doorway, a grin slowly spreading across his face as he took in the situation.

Captain America was fast asleep, head resting heavily beside the stack of paperwork left to do.  One hand splayed out across the keys, jamming them, and the other hung loosely at his side, knuckles almost brushing the floor.  The position looked incredibly awkward, but they’d all seen him sleep in less comfortable surroundings.

“How long since he last slept?” asked Peggy softly.  Bucky shrugged, coming across to poke at the stack of leftover paperwork.  The agent had long since finished her work, he noticed, and was plugging away at Steve’s.

“Dunno,” he confessed, keeping his voice low.  “Couple days, maybe?  It all kind of blends together.”  Besides, he’d fallen asleep himself near the end, regardless of his best efforts.  Two mugs on the edge of her desk caught his eye, and he snagged the full one.  It wasn’t exactly hot anymore, but it was wet, and that was what counted.  “This Steve’s?”

“It’s yours now.”  Peggy pulled the finished document out of her typewriter and reached for the next page.  “I took a while getting it, and he was asleep when I came back.”  

Bucky eyed her anxiously over the rim of his mug.  Most dames didn’t take it too well when a guy fell asleep on them, but she seemed more concerned than angry.  Relieved, he pulled out the chair at the next desk and took a seat.

“Want to go halves?” he asked cheerfully.  For reply, she shoved the stack of papers over so they could both reach it easily.  

Despite his help, Peggy ended up doing most of the typing.  Even one-handed, she was still faster than he was.  Unlike Steve, Bucky had never taken a typing course, and his method was more of the two-fingered “hunt-and-peck” variety.  It was very, very late by the time they finished the last page, but they both had the satisfaction of knowing Steve had got some much-needed rest.

“I hate to wake him,” Peggy mused, patting the pile of papers into a neat stack.  “He looks so peaceful.”

Bucky snorted.  “As peaceful as a guy can look when he’s got his face mashed into a table.”

Carter shrugged.  “There is that,” she admitted.  Stepping forward, she gently moved the captain’s hand off the typewriter keys, unjamming them.  He shifted restlessly, and then settled under her touch, smiling in his sleep, fingers curling loosely around hers as he mumbled Peggy’s name.  Bucky caught the look on her face and made sure to turn his back, gathering up the mugs, satisfied. 

If he'd ever wondered whether or not the agent returned Steve’s affection - well, now he knew for sure. 

“Captain.”  Peggy crouched until she was eye level with the sleeping man. “You can't sleep here all night.”

Steve dragged open heavy eyelids and smiled sleepily at her. Then he blinked and pulled himself upright, sheepishly letting go of her hand when he discovered he was holding it. 

“I - yeah. Sorry. Drifted off for a minute…”  He trailed off, bending a suspicious look at the completed report before noticing Bucky in the room. “Okay, how long was I out?”

“A few hours.”  Peggy rose, dusting off her skirt. Steve looked manifestly dismayed at having left Agent Carter with the work to finish, so Bucky stepped in. 

“Don't look so down,” he encouraged cheerfully. “I helped her out. Always cleaning up after you, Rogers.”

Steve pretended to be offended, but some of the tension eased out of his shoulders, and that was the point, after all. 

* * *

They ended up walking Peggy to the corner before she split off to go home. Bucky could tell Steve would have liked to take her the whole way, but they both knew she wouldn't let him. Peggy Carter could take care of herself.

“‘Night, Peggy.”

“‘Night, Mogs.”  Bucky grinned and then grunted as she whacked him in the chest with her handbag before he could dodge to a safer distance and put Steve between them. 

“Goodnight, gentlemen.”  Peggy put a little stress on the last word, quirking her eyebrow dangerously as she turned on her heel. Yes, there went one capable dame.

“Why do you call her that?  You know she hates it.”  Steve fell into step at his side automatically. It was a far cry from the days when Bucky would have to shorten his step for his friend, but it was still familiar. 

“If she really minded, we both know I'd be six feet under by now.”  Bucky bumped Steve with his shoulder, trying to see if he could get him to step into the gutter. “Besides, if I didn't annoy her, she wouldn’t know I exist.”

Steve bumped his shoulder back. He was careful, but it still sent Bucky a step or two sideways. “That's not true, Buck.”

“Oh?”  Bucky stuck his hands into his pockets - the weather wasn't as cold as France, but it was still freezing. “Hate to break it to you, buddy, but she's got no eyes for anyone else but you.”

Steve ducked his chin self-consciously, but he was grinning. “You think so?”

For a moment Bucky mentally despaired over all the girls he'd tried to set his friend up with. It'd done nothing for Steve’s self esteem, and now that there was a girl who actually liked him, he didn't know what to do. 

“I know so,” he said instead, tilting his head cockily. “Look at tonight. She didn't even mind your snoring.”

“My - what?”  Steve looked properly horrified, so Bucky promptly elaborated. 

“Horrible snoring. Terrible snoring.”  It was hard to keep from grinning, but he actually had Steve believing him for half a second. Then Bucky lost the fight to keep a straight face, and Steve’s eyes narrowed. 

“You're an awful fibber, Barnes.”

Bucky laughed out loud then, slinging an arm around his friend’s shoulders. He had to reach a little higher than he used to, but Steve was still Steve - the determined little guy who was helpless with women and too dumb to run away from a fight. 

He’d follow that man anywhere. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Typing is a skill that seems natural to many of those who have grown up with computers - but it wasn’t always that way. A typewriter was a complicated machine, and people took courses to learn how to operate it correctly. Most didn’t know how to type at all, and those who did were called typists. For example, in the first Captain America movie, Colonel Phillips can be seen dictating the report of Steve’s presumed death to a typist.
> 
> I imagine Steve, as an undersized individual deemed unfit for physical work, probably took a typing course at some point before his transformation. He most likely would have learned on an Underwood, since it was a popular New York brand. Then during the war, his team may have had a portable Corona they carried with them. Peggy could possibly have learned on an Imperial - it’s a British typewriter, used in the War Rooms in London.
> 
> You know, the random assortment of information I collect in the course of writing this story is bizarre, to say the least. I have a blast looking it up, though.
> 
> Have a great day, everybody!


	16. Then We'll Have Time

**Then We’ll Have Time**

* * *

“Captain.”

Steve almost choked on his mouthful of beans as he tried to swallow them in a hurry.  His mother would have smacked him one on the back of the head if she could see him now - war had apparently ruined his table manners.

Not that he had a table.  He was eating standing up in the backstage area of a canteen, waiting for his turn to go on.  The show was starting in about ten minutes, and he’d been in a briefing all evening.  This plate of beans and a biscuit was his dinner.

“Agent Carter.”  He swiped at his mouth, setting down the plate on a stack of assorted costumes and the notes for his upcoming speech.  She looked trim and neat as always, threading through the confused tangle of odds and ends that cluttered the narrow room. The sight of her made something flutter in his chest, and he swallowed hard.

“Don’t let me interrupt your dinner,” Peggy waved a hand - her left one, he noticed.  She wasn’t wearing her sling, but was still keeping her right arm movement to a minimum.  “Long day?”

Steve nodded.  “Yeah.”  Meetings since morning, and then right after this performance, Colonel Phillips would be waiting to take him back for more.  A new development had come to light, and Steve was bound and determined to hunt it down.

Peggy took off her coat and tossed it over a box.  “Penny for your thoughts?”  

The captain poked one more time at the slowly congealing mass on his plate before abandoning it altogether.  Peggy Carter was far more interesting than a mess of beans.  He was pretty sure she already knew what was on his mind, but he told her anyway.  

“They think they’ve found a lead on one of the Hydra scientists who hurt Bucky.”  

His friend’s face had gone an awful shade of grey when they’d asked him if he could identify the man in the photograph.  The memory alone made defensiveness and anger thicken in Steve’s throat, but he carefully controlled the feelings.  This wasn’t the time or the place for thoughts like that.  

He would save them for when he could actually get his hands on the guy.

Nodding understandingly, Peggy surveyed him thoughtfully.  “He’s lucky to have you, Steve,” she told him quietly.  “You’re a good man.”

_A good man_.  The words sunk deep; they always had, and probably always would.  It had been Doctor Erskine’s first and final wish for him, and Steve felt honor-bound to be the very best man he could, not just for the good doctor’s sake, but also for his own mother, and Bucky, and the girl who stood across from him now.  He’d like to think someday he might measure up, at least a little.

“Oh, mm…”  Peggy gestured vaguely toward the front of his uniform.  “I’m afraid your medals are crooked again.”

Pulling away from his thoughts, Steve groaned, looking down at himself.  He was never going to get used to having all those dangling things pinned on his chest.  Normally he just wore the service bars, but for public appearances like this, the brass expected him to put on the full display.  At least he didn't have to wear the battle uniform tonight - Howard was adding some more ‘improvements’ to it.

“Which one?” he asked a little helplessly after a minute.  They all looked okay to him.

Peggy stepped closer.  She was wearing those red heels of hers that she liked so much - or at least, he assumed she liked them.  They weren’t regulation by any stretch of the imagination, but she wore them anyway, and they brought her chin on a level with his shoulder.

“This one.  May I?”

At his somewhat belated nod, she leaned in, adjusting the Purple Heart medal where it hung beside the others.  Steve hoped she couldn’t feel his own heart beating faster beneath her fingers.  She looked awfully nice, with her hair all curled and pinned like that.

“There.”  Peggy finished with a firm pat to his lapel. “Much better.”

The captain risked a glance down.  The medals looked just the same to him, but when he raised his eyes again she seemed to be more satisfied with his appearance.  

“Thanks,” he managed, still looking at her.  

“Five minutes, Cap,” somebody bawled.  Peggy took a step back, and Steve felt his heart rate begin to calm down.  Really, this was ridiculous.  It was as if there was some sort of accelerator set on his pulse tonight, speeding up when she came close and slowing when she backed away.  He’d be in for a heart attack if this kept up.

“Pardon me.”  A young Englishwoman was trying to edge past the two of them, so Peggy dragged Steve to one side, hand warm on his arm.  The woman smiled, nodding in a friendly way before continuing past them toward the coatrack.  Peggy’s eyes followed her.

“So,” she began casually, “What’s it like, performing alongside the ‘Sweetheart of the Forces?’”

Her tone was light, but Steve wasn't fooled for a minute. He knew Peggy better now than he had back when she’d caught that WAC kissing him and had spontaneously decided to play target practice with his shield.

“She’s nice,” he answered, keeping a weather eye on Peggy’s face just in case.  “She’s also married - and she may be the forces’ sweetheart, but she’s not mine.”

A little tension left Peggy’s shoulders, and he thought she looked a trifle embarrassed at her implied assumption. “Oh, of course not.”

Steve blamed the music coming through from the curtained stage, and the close quarters, and the day itself for what happened next.  They had been dancing around this for a very long time, but he’d never been much good at dancing.  Something heady and rash made him fumble in his pocket, fingers closing around the edge of paper he’d been working on earlier.

“I - um.”  How had Bucky said to do this?  They’d gone over it again and again, but now he couldn’t remember a thing.  “It’s - do you know what today is?”

Peggy looked a little surprised.  “February the fourteenth.”

“Yeah.”  Oh golly, did Brits not celebrate Valentine’s Day?  No, surely they must - he’d seen stuff in store windows and everything.  Screwing up his courage to the sticking point, Steve took a deep breath and figuratively jumped in with both feet as he pulled the paper out and handed it to her.  “It - it’s not much, but - Happy Valentine’s Day, Peggy.”

He could hear the soft catch of surprise in her throat, and then she carefully took the paper from his hand.  It wasn’t anything fancy, just a little ink sketch, but he had managed to find a red pen to do the details with, and was rather pleased with how it had come out.

“Oh, Steve - thank you.”  Peggy’s voice had gone a little soft around the edges, and her eyes were very warm and bright when she looked up at him.  “It’s been ages since anyone’s given me a valentine.”

Steve couldn't help beaming, even though he was sure he looked pretty foolish. He wanted to do more, wanted to ask her to be his girl or something, but the words were gone, flown clean out of his head.

“I didn’t get you anything in return,” Peggy was saying.  Was it his imagination, or were her cheeks a little rosier than they had been earlier?  He shifted his weight, acutely conscious of how close they were standing.

“Tell you what,” he started, and cleared his throat nervously.  “After we capture Schmidt, I’ll see if I can get a pass.”  His heart was thundering in his chest as if he was about to charge into mortal battle.  “Then maybe if I can talk you into taking a day off too, and if - if you wanted to, we could go out and get that dance.”

Neither one of them had talked much about her early promise of a dance, but he knew they both thought about it - quite a lot, if she was anything like he was.  From the sudden surprised tenderness in her face, she understood what he was asking, and Steve found himself holding his breath.

Steve Rogers had waited his whole life for the right partner to come along, and he was offering Peggy that place in his life.  There was only one girl for him.

The opening bars for the Captain America theme song came crashing through the curtain, making them both jump.  “Thirty seconds, Cap!”

He ought to be grabbing his shield right now, taking one more look over the notes for his speech, but he didn’t move, didn’t dare take his eyes off of Peggy’s face.  She was practically glowing, eyes bright, lips pursed in a pleased little smile, looking as though he had done something right for once.

What a total, 100%, A-grade chump he was, to even dream of asking a woman like this to save a dance for him.

Then Peggy Carter tipped up her chin and straightened her back, stepping closer to fix his medals once more, although he was positive there was nothing wrong with them this time.  Her touch sent tingles down his spine.  “I’ll hold you to it, Captain,” she told him primly, and oh - she was so close to him that he couldn’t breathe to save his life.

“Cap!  You’re on!”

Galvanized into action, Steve tore his eyes away, reaching for the sheaf of notes beneath his abandoned dinner.  This gig was going on the radio, and the powers-that-be had ordered him to have a written dialogue and speech, just in case.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and he turned back to protest that his medals were surely straight by now.  Then the words evaporated in his throat and he knocked his dinner plate to the floor with a clatter as as Peggy rose on her toes and pressed a long, sweet kiss to his cheek. The rest of the world promptly faded away, until the only thing left was the soft press of her lips and the touch of her hand as she steadied herself against him.

“Happy Valentines Day, Steve,” she whispered when she finally drew back.  Steve simply stared back at her, mouth open, eyes wide, frozen.  He must have looked a sight, because she laughed a little and bit her lip distractingly, rubbing her thumb across his cheek.  “Lipstick,” she explained, and then stepped backwards, away from the hand he hadn’t realized he’d settled on her waist.

“Um,” he started, but wasn’t quite sure what he was trying to say.  Peggy threw him a brilliant glance and then stooped, picking up his shield from where it leaned against the wall.  She smoothed her hand across the star on the front and then held it out to him, balanced lightly on her fingertips.  He took it automatically, still staring at her.

Peggy Carter had kissed him.  He was pretty sure his heart was going to leap straight through the front of his jacket and land on the bean-spattered floor at the toes of her red shoes.

She caught his hand then. He dizzily wondered if she was going to kiss him again, but she pressed his papers into his palm instead, closing his hand around them before propelling him across the room.  “You’re late for your cue, Captain,” she reminded him mischievously, planting her good hand on his back - and then he was through the curtain, onto the brightly lit stage with the piano banging cheerfully away and a thousand eyes staring at him - and he hadn’t the slightest idea what he was supposed to be doing.

* * *

It was probably good, Peggy decided, that Steve was appearing jointly with the ‘Sweetheart of the Forces,’ and that her song came first.  The singer was a seasoned performer and a favorite with the boys - and from the look on Steve’s face as she pushed him onstage, he wasn’t going to be able to string a coherent sentence together for a while.

The mellow, rich sound of the singer’s voice filtered through the building, following Peggy as she slipped through the door and into the crowded press of the canteen.  Servicemen with their wives or girlfriends or sweethearts packed the room, listening eagerly to the show going on at the front.  

It took some maneuvering, but Peggy finally found a good vantage point near the back, out of Steve’s line of sight so he wouldn't see her and spoil the broadcast by stuttering or something. Comfortably situated, she took the opportunity to look again at the valentine he had given her, smiling fondly despite herself.

It wasn’t anything elaborate, just a little boy and girl drawn in the popular cartoon style that so many valentines seemed to feature.  The towheaded boy was in an army uniform, shyly peeking over the top of a large red heart at a little uniformed girl with dark curly hair and a gun, her lips and shoes done in the same red ink that shaded the boy’s cheeks.  “Don't shoot!  I surrender!” the inscription read, and an arrow pointed to the boy’s back from a smaller postscript reading, “Look, I’m even wearing a parachute.”

The postscript made her laugh a little, folding the paper carefully into her inside breast pocket.  That was one thing she had no intention of losing any time soon.

The first song ended, and Steve stepped up to join the singer at the microphone.  He was still more than a little flustered, losing his place twice in their scripted back-and-forth banter, but the other woman was a trooper and got him through with a brilliant smile.

After that, it was his turn to speak.  Peggy saw him take a quick breath, centering himself before reaching for the microphone.  Hesitating for a moment, he deliberately rolled his written dialogue in his hand and looked out at his audience.  Peggy could practically hear the resigned sigh of the show host as his star performer decided to go off script.  

For her part, she  was pleased.  Steve never spoke better than when he spoke from the heart.

“Today is a day to remember the people we love, the people we're fighting for.”  The captain’s voice carried easily, ringing around the room. “Family, friends, sweethearts; both at home or out on the front.”

The canteen was filled to bursting, but you could have heard a pin drop.  Steve couldn't talk to a woman to save his life, but he had the peculiar gift of inspiring loyalty and bringing out the best in the hearts of his listeners. It was a far cry from the kind of speech Steve had recited to the audiences at his old USO performances.  Those had been scripted by Senator Brandt and the publicity department for maximum impact and war bond sales.  This speech was simply Steve Rogers, the boy from Brooklyn, sharing the ideals that made him the man he was.

“What we're doing over here,” he told them firmly, “isn't just to save the world for ourselves, or even for them. We're saving it for our children and our grandchildren and our great-grandchildren, so that future generations will never - God willing - have to live through days like these again.”  

Watching the captain as he spoke, Peggy suddenly realized how much he had grown.  The young man who had recklessly charged off to rescue his friend now bore the weight of the world on his shoulders, but his back was still straight and his eyes, when he looked out at his respectful audience, were still clear and true.  

Steve Rogers was a good man - the best she had ever known.

The microphone captured his voice, sending it across radio waves to countless listeners across Britain and into Europe as he continued.  “And yes, the cost is high, and some of us will lay everything on the line, pay the ultimate price - but we’re doing it for them, so that after all this is over, our families and our loved ones and countless people we will never meet can live in a world of freedom.”

His speech wasn’t very long, but it was heartfelt and sincere, and Peggy saw determination and faith ignite in the eyes of the audience.  After the thunderous applause died down, the singer took the microphone again.  “Here’s one for all our boys, and the girls they love the most,” she announced, and the pianist struck up the opening chords behind her.

“ _When the lights go on again, all over the world,_ ” she crooned, but Peggy’s eyes were on her captain.  He stood off to one side of the stage, fiddling with the discarded script in his hands, apparently listening to the music.  

It was one of those tender, sentimental songs that had reached such great popularity during the darkest months of the Blitz. The words were full of hope for the future - for a world where no bombs fell, and the boys could come home, and there would finally be time for all the love and joy that had been so long postponed.

As the performer reached the last few bars, Steve lifted his head, scanning the crowd until his eyes met hers across the room. His cheeks went nearly as bright as the red ink on her valentine and he dropped his eyes bashfully for a moment before looking up again, a deep sort of quiet determination in his direct gaze.  Peggy raised her head proudly in answer, hoping he could tell just how much faith she had in him, hoping everybody in the room wouldn't see how completely she had lost her own heart - and to an American soldier, of all people.

Someday the lights would go on again; she was quite sure about that.  This war-torn world would even out, and everybody would need to learn how to live in it all over again.  From the way Steve was looking at her, he had every intention of facing that future by her side.

Peggy wouldn’t miss it for the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “When the Lights Go On Again (All Over the World)” was written by Eddie Seiler, Sol Marcus, and Bennie Benjamin in 1942, and it’s my favorite song for WWII Steve and Peggy. If you listen to it, you might figure out why Steve looked for Peggy near the end of the song. The chapter title is a hint. :)
> 
> My unnamed singer is very much based on Dame Vera Lynn, the “Sweetheart of the Forces,” who as of this posting (December 2016) is still alive. A dearly beloved British singer during and after WWII, this remarkable woman was known for singing to the armed forces, often dangerously near the front lines. 
> 
> The Stage Door Canteen in Piccadilly, London, was open during and shortly after the WWII years. USO shows were hosted there, as well as dances, radio shows, and performances by visiting celebrities.
> 
> The Purple Heart has the oldest history of any American military award still given. Steve Rogers has at least two of them. If you look at his uniform, you’ll see the purple service bar with silver stripes at each end that he's wearing in lieu of the medal, but you'll also see an oak leaf cluster on the bar, indicating he's received another one as well. I imagine Steve is quite a bit like a real-life Purple Heart wearer my family knows, who confessed one day that asking a girl out on a date was scarier than any battle he'd ever been in.
> 
> FYI: If you want a happy ending to this story, then this is the last chapter. Otherwise, there are three chapters left. Thanks for reading with me!
> 
> Also: WWII valentines are pretty darling. :)


	17. To You From Failing Hands...

**To You From Failing Hands...**

* * *

The night air was downright cold, but Bucky Barnes breathed it in deeply, watching as his breath made clouds of steam.  From inside the barracks at his back came the sound of the Commandos getting their gear together.  He should have been in there with them, swapping jokes and hunting down that paperback he had loaned to Jones, but he couldn’t stand the noisy closeness.

Not tonight.  Not with this odd heaviness hanging in the center of his chest.  

He needed space, so here he was, leaning against the corrugated metal of the barracks wall, looking up into the star-studded sky.  In the morning, they would head out to follow up a tip on the wherabouts of one Arnim Zola.  The mere thought of the man sent the beginnings of a headache throbbing through Bucky’s temples.

Zola was one of the top ten Nazi scientists wanted by the Allied forces, as well as Schmidt’s right-hand man.  He was also the man who had tortured Bucky back in 1943, and no matter how hard he tried, Bucky couldn’t get the gnawing horror of the little weasel out of his gut.  

Snow had fallen a few days earlier, and Peggy Carter’s boots crunched through the crust as she approached.  She often came by to meet with the men before they went out on a mission.  He heard her footsteps pause when she saw him, then turn away from the door to approach his position.

“Hey, Mogs,” he greeted her casually as she reached him.

Peggy leaned her shoulder against the wall.  He could feel her eyes on his face, but didn’t turn to look at her.  The moon was bright, and for some reason he couldn’t quite get his fill of looking at it.

“What are you doing out here?” she asked curiously.  “And don’t call me _Mogs_.”

Her familiar retort made him grin teasingly, but that weight still hung heavy inside him.  There was something he had to do, something he had to pass on, and he wasn’t sure exactly how to bring it up.

“Take care of him, won’t you?” he abruptly asked.  He didn’t need to say Steve’s name.  They both knew who he was talking about.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her nodding.  “I will.  I only wish I could come with you all on this mission.”

He knew she had wanted to come, had pestered Colonel Phillips within an inch of his life trying to get him to grant her request, but had ultimately been denied.  Her arm still wasn’t up to snuff, though she did her best to hide it.

“He’ll really need you,” Bucky continued, staring the moon out of countenance.  Five hours’ difference between London and Brooklyn – it probably wasn’t visible over there yet, but it would be soon, spilling the same pale light over the tenements and back alleys and chimneys that had made up his boyhood world.  “Peg - I don’t know if I’ll be coming back from this one.”

Dead silence came from the girl beside him.  He didn’t blame her.  Bucky hadn’t said the words out loud before this, but the feeling had been nagging at him for some time now.  

“Don’t be silly, Barnes.”

Bucky shook his head, not quite smiling.  Always the sensible Brit, wasn’t she?  She would be good for his friend, keep his head on straight.  

“Call it a hunch or a gut feeling or a premonition or whatever you like,” he said quietly.  “I’m thinking this mission is my last.”

It wasn’t that he was a pessimist – that wasn’t it at all.  But ever since the photograph of Arnim Zola had been handed to him for identification, he had known that this was only going to end one way.  Steve – bless his optimistic heart – was convinced they would both make it back.  Bucky would settle if just one of them could make it out, as long as that one was Steve.

“Don’t talk like that.”  Peggy’s voice tripped over itself.  He could hear her mind working, trying to find a reason for his mindset, looking for a way out.  “Steve needs you.  You’re practically brothers.  If you think you’re going to go off half-cocked on some harebrained stunt, then I’ll pull you from the mission on a medical basis.”

Bucky turned, tearing his eyes away from the sky to look at her for the first time since the start of their conversation.  She looked worried, almost scared for him.

“Carter,” he started, and she bit her lips, listening.  “You don’t need to worry.  I’m not gonna pull any stupid stunts - but if you think I’d let him get within a hundred miles of that monster without me there to watch his back, you got another think coming.”

Zola would want Steve.  The thought alone left Bucky’s stomach curdling with the absolute certainty of it.  To have the original super soldier within his grasp – yes, Zola would want him, and the scrawny little slimeball was terrifyingly devious.  Bucky had spent the worst hours of his life as a lab rat for the scientist’s insane experiments.

There was no way on God’s green earth that Bucky would let that maniac get his filthy little paws on his brother.

Peggy took a long breath, leaving a shuddering cloud between them.  “It would shatter him, if anything happened,” she whispered simply, and the words hung in the air long after the vapor had vanished.

The shot hit home, and Bucky physically winced, bowing his head.  Then he looked up at her again, soul steeled resolutely.

“And if I didn’t go, and he was the one who died?”

She had no answer to his question.  He hadn’t expected one.

“Look.”  Bucky hesitated, choosing his words carefully, trying to explain.  “I’ve been living on borrowed time since Steve pulled me out of that hellhole after Azzano.  By rights I should’ve died in there.  My place is with him.”  He shuffled his feet in the snow, but didn’t break his gaze. “I’m not saying anything’ll happen, but if it does, you gotta respect my choice.  I made it a long time ago.  I’ll stick by him to the end of the line.”

Carter still looked dismayed, so Bucky changed the subject to something lighter.  He had wanted to bring this up with her for a while, but the time had never quite felt right.  “You remember that secret he never told me?”

For just a moment, the world cleared, reminding them both of the night they had cemented their unspoken alliance, flanking Steve as the three of them sat beside a campfire. “You were teasing him about something,” Peggy remembered quietly.  “He didn’t want you to tell me.”

“Yeah, well – I never promised.”  Setting aside the gloom of the earlier conversation, Bucky settled back against the wall, grinning easily.  “I think you already know it, though.  It’s probably the worst kept secret in the whole army.”

Carter looked confused.  Really, as if it wasn’t obvious.  He dropped the bombshell with a wink.  “Steve’s in love with you.”

The effect was instantaneous.  Peggy blinked, reeling a little before trying to laugh.

Everybody knew Steve cared for her very deeply.  The sap even kept a photo of her in his compass.  Every word, every look, every action proclaimed it as loudly as if he had spoken the words, but to Bucky’s certain knowledge, the man never had.  This was war, and Steve felt there wasn’t a place for any kind of romantic relationship beyond a few smiles or stolen glances.

“I’ve known him his whole life,” Bucky continued, wanting to make sure she understood.  “He’s never been anywhere near as crazy about anybody else.  Guy’s an idiot – doesn’t know how to tell you – but he thinks the world of you.”

Carter was blushing now, pursing her mouth to keep it from curling into a pleased smile.  Bucky swung away from the wall and drew himself up, folding his arms across his chest.

“Look here, sis,” he told her seriously.  “This is my best friend you’re messing with.  You break his heart, I swear I’ll come back and haunt you both.”

The ludicrous threat made Peggy’s lips twitch.  “I have no intention of breaking any hearts,” she managed at last.  “And I’m not your sister, Barnes.”

Bucky waggled his eyebrows teasingly.  “Not yet you aren’t,” he agreed, the implication heavy in his voice.  Peggy’s mouth opened and closed indignantly, trying to find words, and he laughed for the first time since she’d found him standing there in the snow.

They spent a few more minutes looking at the moon in silence, shoulder to shoulder.  The weight in Bucky’s chest had eased a little.  Whatever happened to him after this, Peggy would look after Steve.

“I guess I gotta go throw my stuff into my bag,” he sighed at last, reluctantly turning away from the sky and bringing himself back down to earth.  “We head out at five.”

She caught his sleeve with her cold fingers as he moved past.  “Bucky,” she started, but then paused as if she had no idea what to say.  “Take care of yourself,” she finally begged.  “Don’t do anything foolish.”

Bucky scanned her face for a minute, and then treated her to his very best, hundred-watt beaming grin until the puckers between her eyebrows eased.  “I won’t,” he promised.  “Who knows – I guess I’m just homesick tonight.  See ya around, sis.”

* * *

They saw each other briefly the next morning, in the early morning dimness.  Bucky winked at her, but otherwise gave no indication that he remembered their conversation from the night before, and she had no chance to talk to him.

“Come back safely,” he heard her tell Steve, gripping the dossier tightly as she went to give it to him. She lowered her voice then, leaning in, but Steve’s sideways glance told Bucky exactly who they were talking about.

“I will,” Steve took the papers from her hands, and managed to brush her fingers with his.  Oh, they thought they were being so inconspicuous.  “See you soon.”

“You okay, Buck?” he asked later, voice carefully casual.  The train was moving out, filled with sleepy soldiers, wheels clattering rhythmically over the tracks.  “Peggy said you were kinda down yesterday.”

“Yeah.”  Bucky yawned, his lack of sleep suddenly catching up with him.  He’d stayed up most of the night, writing his folks.  Nothing to worry them, but if anything did happen, if this foreboding actually came through, he wanted them to know how much he cared about them.  “Just real tired.  You know how it is.”

Steve surveyed him carefully for a minute, and then reached out a long arm, slinging it around Bucky’s shoulders.  “Get some sleep then,” he encouraged.  “We got some time before we get to the airfield.”

Bucky grumbled halfheartedly, but gradually let the train’s movement tip his aching head sideways until it leaned against Steve’s shoulder.  As pillows went, it wasn’t bad.  The carbon polymer of the suit wasn’t particularly comfortable, but Steve had more padding over his bones than he used to.  “‘Night, punk,” he mumbled, eyes falling shut.

He could hear the fond smile in Steve’s voice as he answered.  “G’night, jerk,”

The train plunged on through the darkness of the early morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from the WWI poem _In Flanders Fields_ by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae, written in 1915.


	18. ... We Throw the Torch

**… We Throw the Torch**

* * *

Peggy didn’t need to read the mission report.  She knew as soon as she saw Steve’s face.  

It was only a brief glimpse; he was just going into the general’s office and didn't see her as she turned the corner, but the absolute devastation in his eyes told her everything.  

She read the report anyway, and her heart broke.  Death via bullet or Schmidt’s ray gun was one thing; it wasn't wholly unexpected and might be quick, and sometimes there would be a body to bury.  To fall short by mere inches, and watch his lifelong friend fall screaming to his death - Peggy closed her eyes, but it didn’t help banish the mental image.

By the time she could get away, Steve had left, and nobody knew where he was.  London was impossibly enormous, and she shivered in the cold as she hugged her coat around her, checking the few places she thought he might have gone.

“Peggy?  Peggy!”

It was Dugan.  His face was somber, and the bags under his eyes betrayed his grief more plainly than he probably would have liked.  “I was just on my way to find you,” he told her, and tried for a smile before giving up.

“Where is he?” asked Peggy.

“In the bar down on Blackwood.  He doesn’t want to talk to any of us - I thought maybe you…”

Peggy was already walking.  “Thank you, Dugan,” she told him, and he nodded briefly, falling into step beside her.

The pub had been bombed some time ago - it was still standing, but had been abandoned.  Dugan stopped outside the door, and the pain in his bright eyes mirrored her own.  “He’s really low, Peg.”

With a grateful look, she stepped over the rubble at the entrance, and wondered what on earth she was going to say.

Steve smelled of alcohol, which wasn’t a scent she was used to associating with him, but his hand was more or less steady as he set the bottle down and she knew he wasn’t drunk.  He couldn’t get drunk, no matter how hard he tried.  For the first time since she had known him, he didn’t rise at her entrance, and that more than anything else told her just how broken Bucky’s death had left him.

At her urging, he opened up and talked a little. His words were bitter and heavy with guilt and self-blame, and Peggy wished that she could have come to him earlier.  Defeat slumped his broad shoulders, and his hand kept unconsciously flexing open and closed, as if he could somehow catch Bucky in retrospect.  

Peggy couldn't help but remember the night she had learned of the death of her father, and the way Steve had been there for her then. “You won't be alone,” she echoed softly, and she meant it in more than just the hunt for Hydra. She would stand by him for as long as he needed her.

Their conversation faltered after that. Steve sank back into a dismal silence, and for the life of her, Peggy couldn't find words to say that didn't seem trite and meaningless. After a few quiet minutes, she got to her feet with a jerk.  He followed her dully with his eyes.  

“Are you done with this?” she asked, indicating the bottle.

Steve blinked and then nodded slowly.  His voice was rough with grief.  “Wasn't doing much good, anyway.”

_Crash_.  He jumped a little as she grabbed the bottle by the neck and flung it into the wall with all her strength, following it up with the glass.  The release of energy felt good, and the sharp noise seemed to jar Steve out of his stupor, at least slightly.

At the sound, Dugan appeared in the doorway, nerved for action.  He caught her eye and visibly relaxed, vanishing before the captain could look up and notice him. Peggy pursed her lips in annoyance.  While she was grateful for the concern, she knew that no matter how low he got, Steve would never hurt her. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind about that.

Boosting herself up, she perched on the table facing her captain and reached for his empty hand, filling and surrounding it with both of hers. He stared at their clasped hands for a moment before looking away, swallowing hard.  

Steve Rogers had never liked showing weakness, not even when he weighed ninety-five pounds with his boots on. Now, as Captain America, he worked even harder to hide his perceived failings. More than once he had been badly wounded, and Peggy or Bucky only found out when they touched him and their hand came away red and dripping.

This wound wasn’t bleeding, but in many ways she knew it hurt more.

“It should’ve been me,” he said suddenly, voice so low and hoarse that she barely caught the words.  “He’s got a family, parents, sisters.  They think - they thought the world of him.”  

Bucky’s words echoed in Peggy’s ears as she groped for something comforting. “He told me his place was with you,” she finally told him quietly, “until the ‘end of the line.’”  

Steve’s forehead puckered painfully, the corners of his eyes tightening. Apparently the phrase was familiar to him.

“When?” he asked after a minute.  

She held his hand a little tighter.  “The night before you all left. He told me he didn't think he’d be coming back.”

Steve’s other fist suddenly clenched convulsively around the edge of the table until it splintered, slivers of wood falling to join the debris on the cluttered floor.  “He - knew?" The words were raw, broken.  "He knew and he went anyway?”

Peggy smoothed the skin across the knuckles of the hand she held.  She could see the pink of healing flesh, and wondered what or whom he had hit.  “I couldn’t talk him out of it.  It was his choice, Steve.”

For a moment he shook his head, and his lips tightened into a firm line as he fought for composure.  “Stupid kid,” he finally gritted out between clenched teeth, and his shoulders started to shake.  “Stupid, stupid…”

She disentangled one hand and reached out to him.  For a moment he resisted, turning away, face twisting, but she wouldn't let him go.

“Steve,” she urged softly. “Let me help.”

With a full-body shudder, he finally surrendered, bowing his forehead against her knees with a strangled sound.  At long last, he let himself go.  She held his hand tightly and laid her palm on his hair, heart tearing a little bit more with each of his fierce, choking sobs.

_You are loved_ , her heart whispered as she looked down at the strong man weeping into her skirt.   _Oh Steve, you are not alone.  You are loved_. _I love you_.

Later, Peggy realized she should have told him.  It was one of the last quiet moments the two of them would ever have together.  Within a very short time, Zola would give enough information for them to head after Schmidt. Twenty-four hours after that, she would watch as Steve flew to his death, his kiss burning on her lips.

In that moment though, she didn’t know what was to come.  All she knew was that the man who held her heart was desperately grieving the loss of his brother, gripping her hand like a lifeline.  He didn’t need a lover right now; he needed support, and she could do that for him.

“You are not alone, Steve,” she whispered, smoothing back his hair, and her eyes were very wet.   “I’ve got you.  You are not alone.”  

Dugan would keep unwanted intruders out, and nobody would come looking for either of them for a while.  

They had time to mourn their friend.  

* * *

He fell into an exhausted sleep at last, head heavy in her lap, breath still shuddering painfully in his throat, broad shoulders hitching a little. Peggy got the distinct feeling that he hadn't let himself grieve this deeply in a very long time.

“I don't think he's slept since it happened.”  Dugan’s voice was as hushed as he could get it, carrying from the doorway where he stood.  “You want me to get him back to the barracks?”

Peggy hesitated and then shook her head. It felt like a sacred trust somehow, that she should keep watch over her captain this night.

“It’s all right,” she told the worried man in the doorway. Very slowly, she shifted, propping her feet on the side of Steve’s chair next to his leg, taking some of the strain off her back as she settled his head more comfortably.  “I've got him.”

She would stay by Steve’s side; sit up with him until morning, if necessary. He would not be alone - not tonight, anyway.

Whatever else the future brought, she could give him this much at least.

* * *

Light crept slowly into the shattered pub, brushing Steve’s cheeks and turning his eyelashes gold. He shifted, screwing his eyes a little tighter, and his free hand flexed around the fistful of her coat he had gathered sometime in the middle of the night.

Peggy could see the moment the memory of Bucky’s death struck him - he panted once, a short sharp breath, and turned his suddenly miserable face a little further into her lap. Then he paused, slow bewilderment creeping over what she could see of his forehead at the unfamiliar texture of her trench coat against his cheek.

“Good morning.”  Peggy’s voice was rusty from disuse, and she cleared her throat a little.

Steve’s eyes opened slowly, blinking dazedly before he let go of her coat and her other hand, scrubbing his palms down his face as he sat up. Confused, he peered around the broken room with bleary eyes. Then realization hit him as he saw the head-shaped hollow in her lap, and he looked up at her, aghast.

“Peggy - golly, it's _morning_. I'm sorry. I didn't - um…”  He fumbled with his buttons, trying to get his jacket off.  “You’ve got to be freezing - you didn’t have to stay.”

She smiled at him, trying to keep her teeth from chattering as she graciously accepted the coat he somewhat awkwardly tucked across her knees. Hers had been a very cold vigil, but she wouldn't admit it.

“I’m all right.  How are you?” she asked instead, by way of changing the subject.

Steve’s jaw tightened and his mouth thinned into a line as he looked away, throat working. Peggy knew the captain would carry the sorrow and guilt of Bucky’s death for the rest of his life, but the initial rawness was beginning to settle. Someday it might even fade a little.

“I - I’ve got to write his folks,” he managed at last.  “I - Peggy, what am I supposed to say to them?”

Peggy hesitated.  That wasn’t a question she could completely answer for him, but the man looked so lost, so tired.  

“Tell them that he stayed true to himself,” she told him after a long moment. “That he was brave, and stubborn, and that he saved your life without hesitation.”

He couldn't smile, but there was deep gratitude in his eyes when she reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. Steve Rogers was no stranger to hardship and sorrow. He would get through this and come out a stronger man for it.

A loud snore sounded from the other room, and Peggy couldn't help a flicker of fond amusement at Steve’s sudden start.

“It's Dugan,” she assured him, patting the shoulder that had squared alertly beneath her hand at the noise. “He meant to sit up too, but I somehow doubt he managed.”

The captain let out a relieved breath.  For just one moment, Peggy could see how touched he was at his friend’s faithfulness - how much he missed the man who should have been there instead. Then he set his jaw and looked up, blue eyes heartbreakingly sad and resolute.

“I guess we better go wake him up before he gets a crick in his back.”

Peggy handed him back his coat as he stood, trying not to shiver as the cold morning air pressed through her stockings. Then she hopped off the table - and nearly tumbled onto her nose, stiff knees refusing to straighten.

“Hey,” Steve’s arm locked around her waist, stopping her headlong plunge. “You okay?”

Peggy was fairly sure her startled yelp must have woken Dugan, but he hadn't come charging in yet. “Fine,” she panted, laughing a little despite herself as she hung onto Steve’s shoulder with one hand, reaching down to massage her knees with the other.  Hours of cold immobility pressed under the captain’s dead weight had cramped her muscles and joints into one position.  “I'm fine. Just - let me lean on you for a moment, won't you?”

He did better than that, carefully pulling her into his side and supporting her weight.  Peggy didn't notice the way his eyes were fixed on her until she finally managed to get both feet under her and stand up fairly straight. Then she saw the vulnerable expression on his face, and her heart softened.

She was already halfway there, his arm still firm around her, her hand braced on his shoulder. It took barely a thought for her to step into him and complete the embrace, wrapping her arms around the shocked man.

“Oh, Steve - I'm so sorry for your loss.”

She felt him freeze with surprise for the briefest of moments, heart pounding against her ear. This wasn’t something they’d ever really done before.  Then he gathered her close with a rush, holding her tightly as though he would never let her go. He was trembling a little, barely breathing, his unshaven cheek pressed against the side of her forehead.

“Thanks,” he rasped at last, voice thick with sorrow and gratitude and something soft and wondering that left Peggy’s own heart beating more quickly. She closed her eyes, the warm, tender safety of his hold completely banishing the lingering chill of her long watch.

Soon they would have to pull themselves together, would have to face the new day with all the losses and triumphs it might bring. For now though, it was enough to stand, each one stronger for the sharing of their strength.

When they finally left the ruined room, they walked out together, side by side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from the WWI poem _In Flanders Fields_ by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae, written in 1915. 
> 
> Happy New Year, everybody! May it be a very healthy and happy year for you all.


	19. Be Yours to Hold it High

**Be Yours to Hold it High**

* * *

“‘Scuse me, miss?  Miss?  Please, miss?”

Peggy almost kept walking.

It had been an awful week - one of the worst of her life.  The man she loved, and the man he’d looked on as a brother had become her two most constant companions, and the three of them had grown a friendship that was closer and stronger than any of them had expected.

Now they were both gone, and she was the only one left.

As the two people who had been involved with Project Rebirth from the very beginning to the bitter, bitter end, Agent Carter and Colonel Phillips had been immediately recalled to America via special plane.  The people in authority wanted answers, and they wanted them right away.

That’s where she had been for the last ten hours - in a room full of military brass and politicians, all of whom had wanted to hear every little detail of Steve’s last days.   _How did he look?  Did he give any indications that he was planning to go down?  Who neglected to teach him how to fly a plane?  Was he depressed?  Was he... suicidal?_

Colonel Phillips had needed to hold her down after that last question - if he hadn’t, Senator what’s-his-name would have lost a few more teeth.

No, he had not been suicidal.  Steve Rogers had wanted to live, to love, to have a future with her - but he would never save his own life at the expense of others.

As for learning to fly a plane, the United States government itself had vetoed his training, deeming it “unnecessary” and “time consuming.”  They’d never imagined he would need to know, or perhaps they were afraid he would take off into enemy territory again without warning.  Either way, it hadn’t been the fault of either Colonel Phillips or Captain Rogers, and Peggy said so, at great length, and with every inch of her vocabulary.

They had asked her about his final radio transmission then, and that was the last straw.  Peggy’s throat closed off completely, and she sat mute and suffering, eyes hot and prickly as she struggled to maintain her composure in front of everyone.  She had cried all her tears, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t still grieving deeply.

Colonel Phillips took over after that, gruff and annoyed that they had hurt her.  He had heard most of the transmission anyway.  With an uncharacteristic but unsurprising delicacy, he left out the most private parts of Steve’s message, and Peggy had been deeply grateful.

Captain America had belonged to the world, but Steve Rogers had been hers, and his last words had been meant for her alone.

“Miss?” asked the boy again.  

He must have been waiting outside for hours - Peggy vaguely remembered seeing him beyond the crush of reporters as she had entered the building that morning.  The American press had a collective nose like the proverbial bloodhound, and somehow they had picked up on a potential lead.  Nobody knew the story though, so each idea was more wild than the last.   _Can you confirm that Captain America has gone AWOL?  Been sent to Japan?  Defected to the Nazis?”_

She’d hit that last reporter when he had refused to let go of her arm.  Even now, hours later, Peggy’s bruised knuckles were sore and her bad shoulder throbbed.  It had been incredibly satisfying though, to see him sprawled out at her feet, and a gleam of good humor had fluttered across the colonel’s grim face for the first time all week.

The reporters were gone now, probably home to their dinners.  An announcement would have to be made to the press later.  Peggy wouldn’t be the one to make it; the news that Captain America was - was gone would ultimately come from somebody far more politically appropriate, somebody who in all likelihood had never actually known the captain.

“Miss?”

The boy was watching her with urgent eyes.  Every line of his young, small body was strained to the breaking point, held taut and quivering, desperate for knowledge.  Leaning against the wall by his feet was an old trash can lid, and the gleam of the setting sun reflected off a roughly painted pattern of stripes and a star that Peggy Carter would have known in her sleep.

“Yes?” she finally asked, and he visibly screwed up his courage.

“Please, miss - what those guys were saying about Captain America - it ain’t true, is it?  I know it’s prob’ly a secret, but I won’t tell.  Just say it ain’t true.”

Peggy hadn't thought her heart could break any more. Apparently it could. Phillips was waiting with the car, but she ignored his probable exasperation. Instead, she stepped across the pavement after a moment of hesitation and settled on a step, closer to eye level with the boy.

“You like Captain America?” she asked, gesturing to the homemade shield. The boy’s face lit up.

“Yeah. He was little, like me, but then he turned into this really strong guy and he and his friend got to fight Nazis and stuff. Is he okay?”

Steve had loved kids.  He’d been good with them, always made time to talk to them.  Peggy closed her eyes for a moment, taking a steadying breath.  What would Steve have said to this boy?

The answer came with a warm rush, and she opened her eyes again.  “Do you know,” she asked, “that even before he was big and strong, there was one thing that Captain America thought was the most important thing in the world?”

The boy shook his head, eyes wide.  Peggy bit her lips to keep them from trembling.

“He wanted to keep people safe,” she continued, and if her voice was hoarse, she blamed it on the interminable meeting she’d just escaped.  “They both did.  Sergeant Barnes died saving Steve, and Steve - Captain Rogers - he saved the world.  But he…”

She couldn’t say it.  God help her, she still couldn’t say it.  Peggy offered up a fleeting prayer for strength.

“Captain Rogers gave his life so you could grow up and live yours,” she finally managed, very quietly, and watched as the pleading eyes filled with tears and the child’s lower lip wobbled, held in check only by a desperate desire not to cry in front of her.  Her own throat tight, Peggy reached to the side and picked up the trash can lid, smoothing her hand across the slightly crooked, painstakingly painted star on the front.  Then she held it out, handling it as though it was indeed the same shield that had inspired a nation.

In a way, perhaps, it was.

“Now, you take this,” she told him softly, voice breaking in spite of herself, “and you go live your life, and make sure he didn’t die for nothing.”

The boy took the shield from her hands slowly, and she saw stubborn determination in the set of the childish chin.  “I - I will,” he promised solemnly.

Peggy didn’t expect the pair of chubby arms that suddenly flung around her neck, and it completely took her breath away.  Slowly, she brought her own arms around to hug the child back, laying her cheek against the tousled hair. Her broken heart ached anew - a sudden fierce pang that sent fresh tears to her weary eyes as she mourned lost possibilities that could never be, now.

“Thank you, miss,” he whispered into her ear at last, and then drew back, holding the piece of painted tin with respect.  His small shoulders straightened, and Peggy knew he would make good.  

Steve would not have died in vain.

She watched as he left, trudging the length of the sidewalk, holding his shield close to his side.  Twice she saw him swipe his grubby sleeve across his eyes, and knew he was grieving the death of his hero.  Through the mist of her own tears, she saw him reach the corner and turn, the light of the setting sun gleaming off the painted emblem - and just for a moment, Peggy could have sworn she heard the captain himself.

_Go live your life_ , his voice whispered her own words in her ear.   _Make sure we didn’t die for nothing_.

He wasn’t there - she knew he wasn’t, but when Peggy closed her eyes she could see him, standing straight, jaw firm, gaze warm and blue and steady as ever.  Bucky was there too, with his rakish grin and unswerving loyalty, positioned at his captain’s shoulder where he belonged.

It was then that Peggy finally understood her part.  Steve Rogers was engraved on her heart, and he and Bucky Barnes were embedded in the very core of her being.  They might be gone, but they were not forgotten, and their memory supported her still.

It was up to her to continue their legacy.

Drawing herself tall, Peggy wiped the tears from her cheeks with a shuddering breath and opened her eyes, turning toward the waiting car, a firm resolve in her step.

For as long as she lived, Margaret Elizabeth Carter would honor their lives by the way she lived her own.

* * *

_To you from failing hands we throw the torch;_

_Be yours to hold it high._

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and closing quote taken from the 1915 WWI poem [_In Flanders Fields_](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/47380#poem) by Canadian Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae. 
> 
> This marks the end of _A Rare Camaraderie._ Thank you so much for your support and interest. If you enjoyed it, leave me a note to let me know! I would love to hear from you all.


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